


Jeeves Under Fire

by desrose



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, a bit of oddness as well, a fic I completed a while ago, a tiny bit of the real world added in, and a little manly kissing, but it's Bertie so please don't hold it against him, but well-shaken stirred and diluted to sugar-water, dear god I made a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:51:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desrose/pseuds/desrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cross-dressing.  Tree-shimmying.  Ganymede Club fire.  Jeeves singed.  Bertram saves the day.  Bertram loses all… or does he?  A tale in which poor Bertie makes the ultimate sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Such is my love, to thee so I belong,_

_That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.”_

_\--Sonnet 88, William Shakespeare_

 

Jeeves once told me the name of every Muse that existed. 

 

I remember him saying in particular that I was touched by Thalia, the Muse of comedy, and Euterpe, the Muse of music.  And I remember being so taken by the extolment from the man, so thrilled—for Jeeves is ever deliberate in his ideals of worth and praise—that one night I stayed up and submerged myself within a Greek history book.

 

It was in hopes that I might impress him with a similarly directed compliment toward his aspiring Muses (which I am still thoroughly convinced, was all of them.) 

 

When he quoted Shakespeare or Burns or other such romantics, I wanted to comment that he was favored by Calliope herself, the Muse of poetry.

 

Or when he mentioned some particularly brainy fact of some past action in some part of the world, I wanted to point out that he obviously had the blessing of history’s Muse, Clio, upon him.

 

I wanted to say all these things to him, and so much more, but I never did. 

 

And forthwith, I'll never have the chance. 

 

For Melpomene, the Muse of tragedy, writes with me tonight. 

 

I wasn’t really planning to write about it this way, I wasn’t planning to write this at all…  And if I weren’t so accustomed to this blasted business of jotting down my every thought and whim I’d probably be much better off right now.     

 

No one will read it, by Jove, I'll make sure of that, and yet here I am putting pen to paper about what I’ve been desperately trying to put behind me altogether.  It feels blasphemous, like I’m committing some sort of betrayal by the simple act of scribbling my thoughts down—an unholy act to rank up there with Pride and Lust.  But since I’ve perpetrated both of those sins already, I may as well get this one out of the way too. 

 

I should be altogether eradicating this event from the Wooster Family History—if ‘eradicate’ is the word I want (might be too strong, though I would eradicate the whole event and outcome if I could).  But whatever the deuce means ‘wholly discard,’ well, that’s the ticker I’m after.    

 

I don’t suppose anything could bring damage to my reputation now, since after the mud and the muck there’s really no place left to sink.  And once I’m finished with this I'll set the blasted thing alight and be done with it!  Not that there haven’t been enough flames already… 

 

But I’m starting at the end, and even in a private and combustible log such as this I shan’t be making that fatal error!  Right-o then... 

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

It was an odd enough morning to begin with, even without knowing the _contretemps_ of the day.  That is to say, there was nothing normal about it—if anything could ever be known as ‘normal’ with the two of us—‘us’ consisting of course of myself and my man Jeeves.  Or rather that’s my soon to be ex-man, Jeeves.

 

“I say, Jeeves, good morning and all that!  And if ever there was a morning to top…”  It had been my intention to take my valet unawares this fine morning, as it could not be but half past seven and I could never recall being up this early before.

 

But miraculously—as he is rather a miraculous being, Jeeves—without my being able to pull back the covers first, without my so much as sitting up in bed, his mysterious hidden radar that detects all the young master’s thoughts, feelings, moods, and calamitous situations—had sensed my wakefulness and in he came, armed with morning tea in hand.   

 

How exactly he does this, mere mortals may never be privy to such knowledge.

 

So far things were biffing along quite nicely, deceptively.

 

“Agreed, sir.”  And yes, the tone was a bit strained but, as I had stated, my inexperience at awakening at this early hour caused a certain lack of interest in debating the newest of quarrels my valet had with me.  I let it pass, or rather I grit my teeth and bore it out.

 

“Time to ‘carpe diem’ and all that good stuff.  Why, I never even knew a day could begin so early and be so long!  Or of all the things that could be done in it!  Ah, from now on, it’s ‘bon vivant’ for me Jeeves…”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that sir.”

 

My attention had admittedly been wandering, but at this I looked him square in the eye.  “Are you trying to say you disapprove of my being up and about at this hour Jeeves?  It _is_ you, is it not, who is the first to whip out and swear by the old truism ‘early to bed, early to rise’?” 

 

“I confess to enjoying a brief interval of privacy in the predawn hours before you normally call upon me, sir.” 

 

“In other words, mornings are time for yourself?”

 

“Yes sir, to meditate and prepare for the day ahead, among other things.”

 

“Well, now that that has been established, I certainly am most sorry to encroach upon your routine Jeeves—it is ‘encroach’, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes sir it is, but in this instance, no sir, it isn’t.  You have not intruded upon my personal time, as this is so rare an occurrence.  May I enquire as to why you have risen so prematurely today?”  

 

By now he had not only sorted and laid out what I was to wear, but drawn the bath, prepared the shaving tools, tidied up the room, straightened the bed sheets, fluffed my pillows, rearranged my collection of shoes and socks, brought in and endeavored to remove my breakfast tray, and left me with just my cup of Darjeeling.

 

I seriously doubt whether ten minutes had passed.  This being the norm for so long I hardly took notice.  I find it imperative, however, that I do not disregard his remarkable skills as a manservant when faced with all the additional wonders of his that never cease.

 

“Of course you may enquire, Jeeves.  Do you really need to ask?  I gave up long ago withholding any aspect of my life from you.”  That was how matey our relations had become—my every foible known to him.

 

“I’m honored by your confidence, sir, but I do not wish to overstep my boundaries.”

 

“That would be quite impossible, Jeeves, for as I have said, I hold no secrets from you, and surely by now there are no boundaries to separate our respective selves.  Yes, well, what the truth is, an old chum of mine—rather, I haven’t seen him in a while, and you certainly haven’t met him, Jeeves, so I guess that makes him a new, old chum of mine for you—has just arrived via cruise liner.” 

 

I swirled my tea a bit, looking down into its swirling depths whilst reminiscing of old times.  “See, upon our escape from Oxford, this boy actually had the conviction to go the full distance.  So many long years of boarding in prep school, public school, and university had been more than enough for me, but apparently not for him.  He became a doctor of all things, a healer of the sick!  And a good one too I might add.  Making him the only one among our group to go out and actually do something with his life, in the helping industry no less!” 

 

I took a thoughtful sip of my tea at this time for good reason.  For when one is reflecting on another’s life accomplishments, one can’t but help to compare with his own accomplishments—or lack thereof, as my case may very well be.  I tried to banish these deliberations lest I be disappointed with the result.  I wasn’t in the mood to be sour at that hour. 

 

“Well, the only one of us unless you don’t count Rev. Stinker Pinker,” I amended respectfully, “What with being a reverend and all, saving souls, he’s got to be up there in good name and the helping trade, but that’s beside the point.  This chap was always the most chipper of chaps too, never lacking in energy this pal of mine, a little too much enthusiasm though Jeeves, if you get my drift.  Bouncing around at all hours of the day and night is one dalliance that we didn’t quite agree on.  But while most doctors are doing what they do today for the wealth and the prestige—or because some unfortunate soul had an aunt who had gone and planned their whole life before them, as aunts are ought to do—this guy actually did it because he has the best heart around.”

 

“A moving story sir,” Jeeves verbalized.

 

“Yes, quite, isn’t it?  Of all the bally places anyone could be, guess where he’s spent these last few years?”

 

“I couldn’t say sir.”

 

“India!  Pah!  All that sun, he’s probably as red as a burnt lobster.”  Thankfully here Jeeves pluckily restrained himself from mentioning that lobsters aren’t very likely to get burnt, seeing as how they live down deep in the sea, and even the preferred cooking method is either boiling or steaming. 

 

“And before that I got a letter postmarked from Afghanistan.  I won’t mention the contents since it’s somewhat lewd, involving these cliques of girls called ‘harems’ and such…”  I shuddered; he had definitely mentioned a lot of girls.  I for one couldn’t imagine being around so many at once. 

 

“If I have to mention a fault is that this fellow is an absolute womanizer.  Even Bingo Little, before he got married, didn’t hold a candle to this one.  Til this day it rather beats me how.  He was never very much of a looker.  Must be his smooth-talking talents that captured the hordes!”

 

“Indeed sir?  And what, pray tell, is this gentleman’s name?”

 

“Have I really not mentioned it, Jeeves?”  Well obviously I hadn’t, or Jeeves wouldn’t be inquiring about it.  He’s quick on the uptake like that, never misses a trick, Jeeves. 

 

“Well, a fine tirade I must have given.  To set before you all these vivid details and images and you without a face or a name or whatnot—poor fellow, having no idea where to put it all!  I shall make amends immediately!  I am sorry, Jeeves.  Must be this early morning rising business.  Doubtlessly the brain’s not functioning at its peak—if it ever was in the first place, more than a few might argue.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that, sir.”  Jeeves looked almost horrified at the suggestion—that is to say, if he showed any emotion at all, horror would be the most likely candidate at this point.

 

“I’m not suggesting that you would, old bean,” I hastened to reassure.  “But others might.  You cannot dispute it.  With a reputation like mine, people are bound to talk.”

 

The slightest lowering of the shoulders made me realize my poor valet was with the misgivings that this was his fault too, which it was more than partially true, but we Woosters don’t keep grudges, especially against those we consider near and dear—and he was my nearest and dearest. 

 

“Let them talk, Jeeves!”  I dismissed, “It doesn’t matter what people say or think.  I’ve certainly never been one to depend on the praise or criticism of the masses!”

 

“No sir, it is one of your more admirable traits.”

 

“Who was it that talked about reasonable and unreasonable men Jeeves?”

 

“Perhaps the citation you seek is one from the playwright Shaw, sir.  I believe his line of thought was as follows: ‘The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself.  Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.’  It is a fine quote, sir, one that tries to relay the virtues of not adhering to the public opinion.”

 

“That’s the one, whatnot.  I must say, Jeeves; I can hardly believe you to be in approval of anything so closely resembling anarchy.  You toe the line far better than anyone I know.  Why, I doubt if even an impending stampede of rhinoceros could push you over it!”

 

“There are points on which the law and I disagree at best, sir.  And I find I follow my own set of conduct as I see fit.  There have been times when certain indiscretions have called for even I to act accordingly—and not always within what society’s rules would decree.”

 

It then struck me, with Jeeves showing as close to a pained expression as he got, how far off the bat I really was this morning.  I mean, I was acting a right bally fool! 

 

“Call me daft and thick Jeeves.”  I had completely forgotten about the Ganymede club book!  How he had gone against the very code of honor he spoke of, something he lived his entire life by, to save me from blackmail.  So much for my not caring about what others thought!  “I am sorry to bring such an agonizing memory for you to the forefront.  It is agonizing, is it not?”

 

“I did my duty sir.”  His words were beset with conviction, his entire countenance grave, and over the rim of my cup I let my gaze dwell on him in study a bit longer than usual.  I had pondered more than once what would happen if anyone bothered to check those requirements he spoke of, and if Jeeves would indeed be branded a traitor and exiled if they were to be found out.  It was a wearisome matter, and for once there simply seemed to be no perfect solution, or if there was one, neither Jeeves nor I could come up with it.  And that’s saying something.

 

“Of course you did—you always do.”  I remained quiet for some time afterwards, threatening again to fall into thoughts of insufficient self-worth and whether or not I really deserved the man at my side. (I was being unusually completive this morning).  Thankfully, Jeeves caught this in time and cleared his throat before I could really slide myself down that slippery slope. 

 

“Sir, I believe we both became side-tracked for the moment.  You were about to give me the name of your acquaintance…?”

 

“Wha…?  Oh, yes!  Yes, of course!  Thank you, Jeeves, I shall endeavor to correct this error immediately.  And without further ado, his name is:  Goose.”

 

A quite noticeable pause ensued.

 

“Excuse me, sir, but it sounded as though you said ‘Goose’.”

 

“Well, Jeeves, it rather sounded that way because that is what came out, ‘Goose’.”

 

“’Goose’ as in reference to the waterfowl, sir?  An anseriform bird, from the family Anatidae…”

 

“Exactly as the bird Jeeves, though infinitely kinder than the ones you have been known to save the Wooster hide from.  It’s a nickname mind, as you’ve indubitably guessed at, stemming from the resemblance the two have—particularly in the nose and neck area.”

 

“I understand, sir.”

 

“Yes, the whole thing is rather odd isn’t it?  Especially since his Christian name is either Barney or Barnabas, one of the two anyway, I forget which.  But someone must have shouted out ‘Goose’ one day and it stuck to him like wet spaghetti.  Old Goose…”  and here I must confess I got a bit dreamy-eyed in anticipation of the day ahead, so Jeeves silently removed cup and saucer from my grasp and took his leave with a slight bow.


	2. Chapter 2

It was with a lightened step that I exited Berkeley Mansions into the awaiting day and made my way down the avenue to the Drones.  Even I was somewhat surprised by how blithe my outlook on life was, considering the time was still before nine o’clock in the morning.  It was just going to be the best of days, I decided, somewhat giddily.  In his last letter, Goose had both expressed a great yearning to see me and fretted that he wouldn’t be able to since England was no more than a port stop on his latest journey.  Here he would be catching yet another ship to yet another part of the world.  I swear, no one and nothing could suppress that chap’s appetite for traveling. 

 

Goose’s departure would be some time in the evening.  This meant he had to catch the afternoon train to Southampton and so we settled on meeting for a spot of breakfast, just the two of us. 

 

It did my heart good to see that long-neck swerving from side to side, looking for me.  And I brightened even further when the mouth under the beak-like nose grinned broadly at my arrival.

 

“Bertie!” he exclaimed as he rushed up to greet me. 

 

“What ho!  What ho!  Goose!  My old friend!  Pal!  I haven’t seen you in a while!”  I exclaimed as I embraced him back, his superior strength lifting my feet several inches off the ground.

 

“You old devil!”  He vociferated when he held me away at arm’s length.  “Look at you!”  His examination of me, as I knew it would, turned critical.  “Been packing away at the spirits again,” he muttered, shaking his head.

 

I simply rolled the eyes at him.  This was Goose, concerned about everyone’s well-being to an obsessive extent.  There was nothing to be done about it but assure with false promises I would immediately cut down on the cigarettes and alcohol.  Now normally I’ve never been a great liar—even at tiny little white lies such as these I tend to get too sweaty and shifty-eyed to be halfway convincing—but my enthusiasm eventually won him over, as I knew it would, and he was soon enough ushering me into the club. 

 

“Surprise!” 

 

Streamers and bits of confetti rained down upon us, followed closely by some of the boys jumping forward to rub the rest well into our hair.  Everyone wore paper party hats, which soon became attached to our skulls as well with pieces of restricting string beneath our chins. 

 

There were party horns and whistles being blown, as well as a big cake demanding attention in the middle of the room, and a draping banner over it all with the words “Welcome Back Goose!” messily scrawled all over it.  I only hoped they would skip setting off fire crackers this time.  One barely averted disaster involving those particular sparking party favors at my birthday was enough.

 

Every regular member who was there included, but is by no means limited to: Tuppy Glossop, Bingo Little, Catsmeat Pirbright, Barmy Phipps, Pongo Twistleton, Kipper Herring, Stinker Pinker, Oofy Prosser, Freddie Widgeon, Boko Fittleworth, Bustopher Jones (yes he’s a cat, but he’s a cat worth mentioning, and he definitely did his part to liven the place up—quite the party animal), and—oh dear, if I keep this up I’m liable to forget someone.  So, I shall just say everyone was there.

 

And for a while there we were having a jolly old time, the chaps and I.  There were cakes and sweets galore, which were both eaten and thrown, and I played the piano for some pepping music whilst the fellows danced on the tables to the sprightly tunes of ‘Forty-seven Ginger Headed Sailors’ and much, much more.  Then we had a dart-throwing contest in which I came in second, only because that darn Pongo distracted me by…

 

Ahem, I seem to be getting a bit off track here. 

 

It was good to have the old gang back together.  The truth was many of the abovementioned—some who weren’t—had gone adrift, no longer haunting these hallowed rooms as was the ritual for so many years. 

 

We had lost so many members due to the sacrifices of matrimony—did I forget to mention the surplus of weddings that had come to pass?  Goodness gracious, for a while it seemed as though Jeeves had to press and lay out the old spongebag trousers on a daily basis.  I had offered once to just sleep in the dang thing but with a thinning of the lips Jeeves had expertly refused. 

 

And now!  Nowadays it seemed as though there was a factory turning out babies among my friends!  Everyone had at least one and quickly moving on to two and three. 

 

But don’t go getting the idea that these gents were productive members of society, far from it!  But somehow I guessed that having a couple of crying babes at home, who wouldn’t stop their blubbering lest they were fed, well, that’s enough incentive for the bread-winner to go out and win bread.

 

It was only with Jeeves’ sagacity that I was able to escape such a horrendous fate.  I used to often bemoan that my comrades did not have a guardian angel such as mine.  I had even asked Jeeves if he was absolutely positive he didn’t have any exact replicas of himself lurking around somewhere.  Of course he didn’t and, as much as I do love my friends and allow for them to ask my man his advice, I am selfish and greedy.  There are many sacrifices a Wooster would make in the name of friendship, but my giving up Jeeves would never be an option. 

 

My aunts had tried and failed to condemn me to wedlock.  Even my trusted Aunt Dahlia had given it a go—for which I promptly gave her a stern talking to, and she, properly contrite, hasn’t made the attempt since.  I am proud to profess that I am still one of nature’s natural born bachelors!

 

It was on this line of thought that I inquired as to my friend Goose’s own matrimonial affairs.  This simple query was the very beginning of the Great Mistake.

 

“So, my good man, everyone else has been doing it—what about you?”  For we had been filling him in on different aspects of our lives since he left, on how much has changed, and when the subject of wives arose, instantly half the eyes in the room got a bit misty.

 

“Well, Bertie,” and here he clapped me heartily on the shoulder, “I’m somewhat surprised you weren’t the first one to be dragged off to the altar!”  And here the Drones’ members went into uproarious laughter, before taking turns joking about my various hits and near misses and, of course, Jeeves’ timely saves. 

 

There were a lot of stories to be told and most were time-consuming—not by their actual content, but by the hilarity each one produced in turn.  I took it all with a strained smile, for what else was a blighter to do under these sorts of conditions but nod politely?

 

“If it weren’t for Jeeves, none of us would be married!  And if it weren’t for Jeeves, Bertie Wooster would have probably ended up with all our wives!”  A half-drunken Tuppy proclaimed.  “So, here’s to Jeeves!”

 

“To Jeeves!”

 

Everyone raised a glass of spirits, including myself, who was not necessarily into drinking so early in the morn but in order to pay a respectful tribute to my man Jeeves I made an exception. 

 

“So Goose—you evaded the question!”  I remarked indignantly after the toast—and several more thereafter—were made in tribute to my valet.  “Are you hooked or aren’t you?”

 

And here was the first time I had seen him look uncomfortable.  He shifted slightly, gaze firmly drawn to something obviously vastly interesting that I couldn’t see in the bottom of his glass.  Bingo came forward and nudged him in what looked like an encouraging manner.  I looked confusedly between the two, trying to grin slightly in my own little attempt at restoring cheer.

 

“Well, actually, Bertie, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about…”

 

He looked again anxiously at Bingo, who merely nodded to him sanguinely. 

 

“Now, I know you’ve always been the kind of chap to help other chaps out, when they’re in a fix and so forth…”

 

“I told him that,” Bingo interrupted, “I told him you were just that type.”

 

“Oh, Bertie’s come through for us all hundreds of times,” Barmy exaggerated, and I must confess I either blushed or blanched at all the good press.

 

“Well, I say…”  I stuttered, “I will most certainly do anything within my power to help.  Although I must warn you, if it’s woman trouble, as everybody already mentioned, we should probably ring for Jeeves at the flat.”

 

“Oh no, we’ve already come up with a solution!”  Goose proclaimed, his head and neck bobbing with a quick upwards and downwards motion.

 

“Oh, yes, quite,” Bingo chimed in.

 

“A fair work of genius I must say.”

 

“Almost as good as one of Jeeves’, what.”

 

“Oh, rather.”  This was highly doubtful and suspicious—there was no way anyone could come up with anything half as good as Jeeves’ plans.  Unless they had managed to raise one of the Great Thinkers like Spinoza from the grave and consult him on the matter, which I highly doubted.  And so, rather curious about the matter, I delved further with abandon.

 

“All right, all right, you have a solution, but what’s the problem?  And what’s to be my role in it?” 

 

Goose visibly relaxed, poor thing, when I voiced my agreement to cooperate—he was obviously quite shaken by the whole affair.  The Code of the Woosters was specific in these sorts of circumstances.  Every effort must be made on my part.  It was time for all good men to rally and, if nothing else, I certainly counted among the good men. 

 

“Cornelia Connors is her name—and the problem.  Blast it, Bertie, I hardly know where to begin!”

 

“An American girl?  They can be a livelier breed of the fairer sex, what?  Even feistier than Britain’s good old fashioned homegrown variety!  Sadly I was engaged to one or two myself, but thankfully Jeeves…”

 

“You don’t need to be telling me how feisty they are Bertie; in fact I ought to be the one telling you.”

 

“Oh!  Yes, yes, quite.  Well, from the beginning I suppose.”

 

“Thank you.  Now as I was saying Cornelia has become something of an unwanted shadow.  That is, she’s been following me from America since—I don’t really know how long.  Feels like years, but most likely it’s only been a couple of months now give or take.”

 

I nodded sagely at this; women constantly had ways of dragging out the pain.

 

“I met her at a play back in the States.  We talked, she was nice, and I had thought I got to know her fairly well.  I met her parents; she was a good looking young thing.  I honestly considered settling down for the first time in my life.”

 

I hummed at this, because quite frankly, it sounded all like sunshine and rainbows.  “It all sounds like sunshine and rainbows to me, old chap.  I’m afraid I don’t quite perceive the problem.”

 

“Oh Bertie, she’s a despicable monster!”

 

This shocked me.  Now, I knew the Woosters don’t bandy women’s names, the Jeeveses don’t bandy women’s names, and until now I had always thought that the Figglesworths were of the none-women’s-name-bandying-class too.  Guess I was wrong. 

 

“I say, don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?”

 

“Not in the least, Bertie!  I don’t care how many engagements to how many girls you’ve been through; you’ve never known her equal!”

 

I wasn’t going to comment on this, as several of the girls I could mention were married to men presently in close proximity to me.

 

“She is a temptress, Bertie, a wicked temptress!  She nearly had me under her spell, flailing about like a dolphin in a tuna net, but I got free and she despises and loves me for it!”

 

I probably should have mentioned before that, if not necessarily prone to flights of fancy, Goose was at least inclined to be overly melodramatic.

 

“What could she have possibly done that was so terrible?”

 

“Why, she tried to tie me down!  Mold me into a decent husband!”

 

“I say!”  And what else could I say?  I was busy trembling from flashbacks of Florence Craye and Honoria Glossop.  Molding was always a horrific experience for a young man to undergo.

 

“Exactly!  I would have given up my travels, if not gladly, but that wasn’t enough for her!  She wouldn’t give a man his freedom!  She tried to stop me from drinking!  She tried to stop me from smoking!  She tried to stop me from nights on the town!  She insisted I break any and all ties to my country and pledge only loyalty to the U.S. of A.”

 

The last one was a rather tall order.  I refrained from mentioning that Goose had tried to discourage me from the ships and alcohol just a few hours earlier.  Of course there’s the difference between simply cutting back and giving up on them entirely.  And his suggestions were entirely brotherly and probably medically sound. 

 

But I wasn’t going back to that again, not after…

 

“Bertie, pay attention!”

 

“Awfully sorry about that old chap, mind sort of drifts every once in a while.”  I found there was not much to anchor it down with so far.

 

Goose heaved a resigned sigh, which I thought was a touch rude.  He wasn’t the one having to sit through a précis.  “Her father is part of the ‘Freemasons’ you know, and she a ‘Daughter of Liberty’, that’s where all the patriotism comes from.”

 

“I don’t believe I’ve heard of either one.”

 

“They’re lodges, think Spode and his followers to some extent.”  Tuppy whispered in my ear.

 

“Ah!”  I cried as though in understanding, even though I didn’t and most likely wouldn’t.

 

“She’s been dogging my tail from the Americas to Asia!  I can’t seem to shake her, hence the plan.”

 

“Of course!  The plan!  Now, what plan is this?”

 

Goose and Bingo traded looks, the former of apprehension and the latter of support. 

 

“Well, you see Bertie…”  And here he pulled out a bag I hadn’t seen with him before.  Bingo must have brought it. 

 

“It’s quite simple really.  We’ve already established that Cornelia is of the insanely jealous and possessive type, yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, then…”

 

Out of the bag previously alluded to came some of the most unforeseeable items.  That is: a blond wig, what looked like face paints and colors, and the most hideous looking Victorian tea dress, the likes of which I had never seen before. 

 

Jeeves certainly wouldn’t approve of it.  For one thing it was terribly frilly at the collar and cuffs, almost as bad as those worn by Queen Elizabeth in her famous pictures.  The materials the designer used looked itchy and constraining, as though he had revenge on the female population in mind, and on it were these patterns of—well, I don’t know quite how to describe it.  Let’s just say there were lots of swirls and trim and the coloring was off, way off.  There was only one word I knew of for something this revolting:

 

“Gah!”

 

I thought it was rather eloquent, considering the circumstances.

 

“Now don’t ‘gah!’ at it, Bertie.  You, of course, get the gist of the plot by now right?”

 

“Not a pip.”

 

“Oh, don’t be dense, old thing!”  Goose sighed, “Look…”  And with that preface he swept his left hand out in front of him, indicating the room as a whole.  At first I admittedly couldn’t find anything wrong with the place, except that it was perhaps a bit more untidy than usual—this isn’t saying much considering the place is always a mess.  It was the two men on the ladders though that caught my eye, as they were hanging a new banner now.

 

“Well, I say!”

 

‘Welcome Back Goose!’ had been conspicuously covered with ‘Happy Engagement Goose and Pearline!’ in even brighter and bolder lettering.

 

Ever get the feeling where everyone else knows something you don’t?  Well, that feeling was magnified times ten and presumably true at this point.  All gazes of the members looked so expectantly at me, anticipating a relatively smart remark.  It made me feel more than a bit daft at still not having caught on if you catch my drift. 

 

“So then, who’s this Pearl gal?”

 

Goose gave a look of long-suffering and rolled his eyes, while Bingo cleared his throat and stepped up to give it a go. 

 

“Why, you are, Bertie!”

 

“P-pardon me?”  I had the certificate of birth—while not on my person _per se_ , but at home—stating in no uncertain terms that I had been endowed with the name Bertram Wilberforce Wooster since day one.  What’s more, ‘Pearline’ was a girl’s name, and I’m fairly sure my parents wouldn’t have overlooked that one particular for so many years.  And even if they had, I’m sure I would’ve picked up on something before now.

So, with me still out of the loop, I was probably not looking at my most intelligent—my mouth hanging open, catching flies, and all.

 

“Bertie,” Bingo began to explain slowly, enunciating his words carefully, which I thought was a dashed example of the pot and kettle analogy.  “You’re going to play her!  You know… put on the dress, wear the makeup, and alter your tenor into a soprano.  We’ve invited Cornelia here anonymously—when she sees that Goose is engaged to another woman, why she’ll have no choice but to give up the chase and go home in despair!”

 

If that light bulb of mine was dimmed and dark before, it certainly shone in full force now as his exact words, and the meaning of them, came to light.

 

“Now hold up!  When did I sign on for this?  I don’t remember attending any talent additions of late and this certainly isn’t one of my talents!”

 

“Well, we at the Drones here kind of held it without you—you really are the only one among us who could pull it off, Bertie!”

 

“I am not!”  I said haughtily, highly affronted.

 

“No, no, you are, Bertie,” Tuppy Glossop managed around a snort.

 

“Well, I say!”  I had to take offense here you see; a man must defend his masculinity!

 

“Come on now, Bertie, it’s true.”  Bingo continued in that confounded reasonable tone of his.  “In all of our school productions, who was our Cressida?  Who was Cleopatra?  Who was Juliet?  Who was Lady Macbeth?”

 

“Oh, come now, that was ages ago!”

 

“It was yesterday!  Look, you’re still the only one who’s got the figure for it.  Your shoulders and arms aren’t strapping…”

 

“…I’ve got a bony kind of strength!”

 

“You’ve got the least amount of hair on you.”

 

“That’s… that’s because… I have nothing to be ashamed of there!”

 

“Of course you don’t!”

 

“Yet you insist upon comparing the Wooster and female wiles?  If you were so enamored with self, why did you go off and marry Mrs. Bingo!” 

 

“Bertie, nobody here is saying you’re not manly…”

 

“Yes, you are!  Those are your very words!”

           

“…we’re just saying that your build is a bit slighter, your features a tad fairer, and your overall effect a touch more effeminate than the rest of ours.  Right?”  The rest of the room nodded in approval, blast them. 

 

“No, no, no, no.  No!  I shan’t do it!”  I declared, the Wooster mind decisively made up and holding steadfast in the storm of argumentation.

 

“But Bertie!”

 

“No, Goose, not even for you, old thing, shall I submit to that kind of whatsit.  If you lot thought for a second that these past years have taught me nothing, well, then, I hate to disappoint, but you’re sorely wrong!”

 

“Bertie, you’re breaking my heart!”

 

“And I’m sorry for it!  But now look, everyone.  Every time I get involved in one of these jaunty schemes of yours, life isn’t always sunflowers and daises afterwards for the Wooster wellbeing!”

 

“Now you’re just being selfish, Bertie!”

 

“Never!  It’s actually more for the sake of a promise I mean to keep.”  I had reached for my coat and hat while this exchange took place, knowing I’d require a quick escape if I was going to make it out this door _sans_ dress.

 

“And what promise is that?”

 

“I promised Jeeves I wouldn’t get engaged to anyone in the next week.  Tootle-pip!”  And, grabbing my cane, I made to bow out at the door in a stage-like fashion, twirling my cane a bit fancily like a baton, and even waving dramatically to my audience, but I didn’t wait for any encore to make my exit.  So close was I to liberty that it rather pains me to think on it now! 

 

But alas, I was not quick enough in my endeavor to flee, for Barmy and Pongo, who until then had been playing the crystal water glasses quite spiffingly in the corner closest to the door, now shot up and grabbed firm hold of the Wooster upper limbs, towing me back to the fearsome gathering. 

 

Whilst they were dragging me I inwardly debated about whether to shout “Coo!” or “Crumbs!” but then decided rather wisely that it wouldn’t make a dipper of a difference.  I was ultimately going to yet again play the martyr. 

 

“Please do this Bertie.  We’ll make it up to you,” Goose pleaded passionately.

 

“How?”  I was dubious about that, but no less resigned to my lot in life.

 

“Well, how about tickets to a concert?  No?  A night out on the town, my treat!  No?  Well then how about a nice dinner at a favorite restaurant of yours?  No?  A trip to the Galapagos?” 

 

The last sounded a bit like something Jeeves would enjoy so, realizing I might as well try to get something out of this, I changed over from the constant head shaking—which had been giving me a bit of a headache tell the truth—into constant head nodding.

 

“Ha, ha!  The Galapagos it is then!  Oh you’ll like it there, Bertie—they have these iguanas that swim in ocean, and these birds that are flightless but can dive like you can’t believe, and all sorts of other colorful…”

 

While Goose was busy giving his lecture about all the wonders of this bloody place called the Galapagos, which I was starting to regret more and more about agreeing to, I had been swarmed about by the rest of our posse and proceeded to be stripped right down to my skivvies. 

 

Now it was dashed odd, and cold, to be standing about in the middle of the Drones in nothing but my undergarments, but I soon longed for the feeling as the corset was tied tight.  Then I was directed to hold up my arms and the dress was slipped none-too-easily over my head and torso.

 

“Ouch, ugh, gah!” was pretty much all I could splutter, the exclamations of pain present mostly when my hair was pulled by a button or when my arms were caught and yanked in a particularly painful angle.  Jeeves had certainly never dressed me with such a lack of finesse, even when he dressed me in a dress before!  It quickly became apparent how good I had it in life.  Because one thing was for sure, I no longer envied—and indeed held a grudging respect for—women in their tight bodices.  Nothing could be worth this much unnecessary torture!

 

What a picture we must have made—and such a picture, were it taken, could have been used as blackmail—with their descending upon me like vultures.  Only, instead of talons, they held various sizes of brushes and wands.  When Jeeves had applied my makeup, it had been with a sure and steady hand. I had asked how he knew so intimately the subject of ladies’ paints.  He responded vaguely, something about once being engaged to a lady’s maid, which pretty much quashed the exchange for all intents and purposes.  As bringing up a woman so often does…

 

But as I was saying, this wasn’t Jeeves.  This was messy. 

 

I voiced as much.

 

“Bertie,” Stinker ventured, “This would go a lot easier with encouragement rather than discouragement.”

 

“Right, right, quite right, sorry,” I conceded.

 

Indeed, even with the concentration I didn’t feel they were getting very far.  Not that I could see anything, mind, but I could feel it.  I felt it when Barmy, doing my lipstick, accidentally ran it off to the side of my face.  I couldn’t see who was doing my eye shadow, because when I made to open my eyes for a slight second, he jabbed me in my left one.  The water that tends to leak as a result of these eye-jabs had Barmy complaining that I was smudging his rouge.  Good God, could women really handle this ritual daily?  I shuddered at the thought, which procured many curses and threats of tying me to the chair upon which I stiffly sat. 

 

“What rot!  Why couldn’t you have gotten an actual woman to take the part?”  I cried out, stifling whimpers at the plucking that took place on this Wooster’s puckered brow.

 

“We couldn’t do that to a woman, Bertie!  Think of a gal’s feelings on the matter!”

 

“Yes, can you imagine what being engaged to Goose, even in play, would do to a lady’s constitution?”

 

Everyone but me laughed uproariously.

 

“Just think, Bertie, after this, you can really join the stage!” 

 

“I’m sure this’ll look great on my _curriculum vitae_ ,” I mumbled, still testy over the whole affair.  My words didn’t get the desired reaction however.  Trying to make them feel guilty only resulted in more fits of hysteria. 

 

“On, Bertie!  It’s too bad you couldn’t have been around in old Shakespeare’s time!  You’d have made a lovely Peasblossom!”

 

“Oh yes, quite right,” I scowled.

 

Goose caught on, “Now, now, let’s all leave Bertie alone for a minute here.  It’s a dashed good service he’s doing on my behalf!  Why, I couldn’t ask for a boonier comrade!  A more noble, self-sacrificing one among us there is not!”

 

“Here, here!”

 

“To Bertie everyone!”

 

“To Bertie!”

 

I blushed when I realized I was finally being toasted, and then became quite put off when I couldn’t reach for a drink myself. 

 

“I say, Goose, now how about a snifter?  Nothing like a cool beverage to steady the nerves what?”

 

“I think you’ve had enough for the time being, Bertie,” he began evasively, “speaking as a medical man, of course.  And I want you sober for this task!” 

 

“Goose!”

 

“Well, I do!  Plus, it would smudge your lipstick.”

 

“Harrumph,” seemed to be the only thing to say to that.  I wasn’t one of those blighters who went and got themselves wasted before noon anyway—I just wanted a bit of the strengthening potion.

 

At long last, after what seemed like hours in that God-forsaken chair, Goose cleared his throat purposefully and stepped back, eyeing me critically. 

 

“Gentlemen… and lady,” he amended with a smirk that made me want to throw several types of large and heavy objects at him.  “We have Pearline!”

 

The ‘gentlemen’ assembled all hooted at that, and instigated a round of applause for their laborious efforts, as if they had had to withstand the worst of it!  I was about to give all of them all kinds of pieces of my mind and whatnot when someone somewhere produced a hand mirror and politely offered it to me.  I took it with some bewilderment, shaking my head in denial of what I saw within. 

 

I looked… utterly ridiculous.  I honestly think this getup could get me a full-blown snort from Jeeves, if not an actual guffaw.  That’s how bad it was. 

 

But the worst thing was that I actually passed!  Upon inspection, the dress, though repulsive in every sense of the word, was actually quite practical for the activity of cross-dressing.  The exceedingly uncomfortable collar at the top was high enough to cover my Adam’s apple, the sleeves were billowy enough not to account for my finely sculpted arms, and the dress itself was just un-clingy enough to hide certain other areas in which I noticeably lacked.  The gloves covered the knuckles and the fan provided cover for the face.  The only good part was that the dress was long enough that I could stay in my own footwear!  It was hot, It was itchy, and the sooner we got this over this, the sooner I could strangle every last one of them.  I told them as much.

 

“Well, Bertie,” Goose didn’t seem too perturbed by this news, “If you get me out of my entanglement with Cornelia, at least I'll die a happy man!”

 

At this I finally and utterly relented.  I mean to say, if a man is determined to the point of willful death for his cause, there’s only so much another man can do to stand his way, without getting himself killed too that is. 

 

“All right then, what is it Pearline is required to do in her role?”

 

“That’s the spirit, Bertie!”

 

Quite right.

 

“Now, there will be no ‘what ho-ing’ whatsoever, no ‘tootle-pipping’, or any other type of ‘pips’ for that matter…”

 

And here the glower lodged as firmly into self as if six-months of rent had been paid in advance and it was here to stay.

 


	3. Chapter 3

You could have knocked me over with a feather. That’s how surprised I was that the bally ‘plan’ actually worked out.  That’s to say, it went off without a hitch.  I felt kind of sorry for Jeeves.  If such a winning streak continued in this fashion, that brain of his won’t be seeing much work.  Why, it could shrivel up from disuse!  The thought sent shivers down the Wooster spine but I didn’t despair for long.  For I knew as long as I lived and breathed, there would always be a challenge for Jeeves’ intellect.  This brought me much comfort.

 

I'll give a brief synopsis of what happened—if synopsis is the word I want—before I make relate the main events of the day. 

 

First off, I’d like the record to state that it was really as hard as it sounds.  Playing a woman _was_ most difficult.  I have a newfound sense of admiration for the fairer sex, but after this wheeze, I also have a renewed and practically doubled dread of them.  Who would walk around in this fangled garment willingly?  No one sane, that’s for sure. 

 

Even now, I shudder to think of what old Goose would have been condemned to if I hadn’t helped him.  To give Shakespeare credit when he gave that bit about there being no choice when it came to rotten apples would be _apropos_.  It’s a small consolation, as it always is, that at least someone’s happy.

 

Now, where was I?  Oh yes…

 

1)  Cornelia entered the premises unawares.

 

2)  Cornelia received quite a shock from the banner.

 

3)  Cornelia spotted Pearline (me) with Goose.

 

4)  Cornelia had harsh words with Goose.

 

5)  Cornelia had harsh words with me.

 

6)  Cornelia slapped me.

 

7)  Cornelia sniffed at Goose.

 

8)  Cornelia stalked out the door with the rest of the Drones lot cowering in the corners.

 

It was an octet-step resolution.  Of course, the Wooster form was sorely abused during the course of events, but I have found that is generally how you can tell that things are going rather spiffingly for everyone else. 

 

The more severe the harm to self, all the more likely happiness is ensured.  Should Bertie’s house burn down, should he be chased by a homicidal maniac with a carving knife, should he ride all night on a bicycle out in the pouring rain, should he be sent to jail, should he be beaten bloody, or should he be labeled a fruitcake, someone, somewhere, gets engaged, comes into a large sum of money, or has their dreams come true because of it.

 

As Jeeves says, one cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs.  Thankfully I was a tough egg to start with, and am an even tougher one now for surviving all this.  Also, I believe it’s not going too far in saying that I am the standard definition of a ‘good-sport’.

 

But standing there, in the middle of the Drones, in a dress, with the other chaps dancing around and smacking each other’s backs in merriment, I was beginning to curse my ‘good-natured’ caliber.

 

The shouts the lads were emitting were admittedly high in volume and pitch, but the whirring shriek of a passing siren was even louder.

 

“Lord-love-a-duck, what is that infernal racket?”  I yelled over the din, which really served little purpose, as anyone who could answer presently had their fingers stuffed in their ears.  When the noise abated somewhat, we assumed that whatever had caused it had passed us by, and the Drones Club members straightened themselves.  Our hands had barely descended from our ears, though, before another alarm started up.

 

“Will somebody please check and see what’s going on?”  I hollered again, unnecessarily, as Pongo had already made for the door and was now struggling to open it whilst simultaneously keeping his ears covered. 

 

At first I could have sworn it was Judgment Day.  People ran amuck everywhere in the streets, streaming by so fast we caught only flashes of color before they were swallowed up in the throng.  What was most noticeable was the big truck of an alarmingly bright red—a fire-engine, I surmised, when I saw the men that rode it wore a similarly alarming shade of yellow hats—was honking and tooting its horn for the crowds to part. 

 

A poem I had been made to memorize for grammar school as a lad suddenly sprang unbidden to mind and I realized just why Mr. Edgar Allan Poe had been as glum as he was when he wrote most of his things, if he saw a scene to anything similar to the chaos that was what I was seeing.   

           

“Hear the loud alarum bells—

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!”

 

The place was in a blind panic.  I heard children crying for their mothers, I heard mothers crying for their children, and people were running in both directions at once.  As we watched, two men crashed into each other with force enough to send both flailing to the ground like a pair of Sir Newton’s apples succumbing to gravity.

 

“Oi, enough already!”  Goose exclaimed and, with a tremendous show of strength, hauled one of the men into the club while the other scampered off.  I mean, you can’t just sit around dazedly in these situations and let yourself be trampled on like a welcome mat.

 

“Let.  Me.  Go!”  The stranger struggled valiantly, wriggling as one much as one of Gussie’s caught newts, but Goose’s grasp was formidable and he took him by the collar and pressed him up against the door. 

 

“Easy, man, easy!  Just tell us what’s happening out there!”

 

“Fire... on Curzon Street!  Some club or another went up in smoke!”  The stranger panted.   

 

His words drove a dagger of ice through me and before I knew what I was doing I had roughly pushed Goose aside—Goose was as shocked as I that I could do it—and grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt for myself. 

 

“Is it the _Ganymede Club_?  Is the name of the place that’s burning the Ganymede Club?  Well is it?  Speak up man!  Speak up!  For Christ’s sake speak up!”

 

Poor fellow, should our paths ever cross again I really must apologize for my forceful behavior.  I was not exactly acting the modern-man debonair people know me for and he looked absolutely stricken by it—and here was me thinking I could never intimidate anyone! 

 

But my mind wasn’t really on him.  It was on a morning exchange between Jeeves and self that I had previously forgotten and, were it not for this incident, would have never recalled:

 

 Jeeves: “I will be having luncheon at the Junior Ganymede, sir, and may not be back by the time you return.  Should you require anything…”

 

Self:  “Of course, Jeeves, of course, I'll ring you there.  Have a wonderful time.” 

 

I had been thoroughly distracted then by attempting to tie a tie for once on my own.  It’d been forever since I’d done it and I’m afraid all I did was end up in a wrestling match of sorts with the dratted article, before Jeeves saved me from self-asphyxiation.  Then he had warmly patted me down for stray lint and wished me the same courtesy. 

 

The stranger had finally squirmed from my numb grasp by now and off he went, melting into the colorful masses.

 

“Bertie?”  Goose asked somewhat uncertain, waving one hand in front of my face while using the other to try and shake some sense into me.  I had gone as rigid as a petrified coniferous.  He was new.  Even with all the stories we had shared with Goose that morning he couldn’t be expected to know.  The other Drones members stood well back in stony silence, ill at ease and awaiting my next move.  They all knew.

 

I’m not sure what it was that possessed me to do what I did next, but something just told me I needed to be there.  Perhaps this was the same intu-whatsit that guided Jeeves when the young master was in peril.  Perhaps it ran both ways.  I couldn’t be sure.  I really wasn’t in any state to debate it. 

 

Only one word reverberated within this Wooster, louder than any other sound out there: ‘Jeeves.’

 

“Bertie!”

 

“Tootles!” 

 

I’m sure they too must have been worried for Jeeves, and I’m fairly certain that they tried to chase after me.  And they failed.  But unlike them, I wasn’t giving a damn about propriety. 

 

I was frantic.  I pushed and shoved and elbowed and clawed and stepped on toes from beginning to end, and I wouldn’t have been averse to biting either if it could help my progress through the throng.  I probably couldn’t have made half as good timing as I did, though, if I hadn’t flabbergasted most of the unsuspecting multitude who, at first having seen a dress, thought me a woman.  When they heard my manly roar, however, even in fright and flight everyone had to stop and give pause at the sight I made.

 

Lungs and limbs most likely destined to never recover, I breathlessly arrived at what I soon found out was a dead end. 

 

The police had blockaded Curzon Street.  


	4. Chapter 4

Not even a barricade could stop me!

 

At first, shoulders hunched, and looking as threatening as I could—which wasn’t much in a dress—I just tried to march right through. 

 

But soon enough I was marched right back, police escorted—and this time I wasn’t in the least bit interested in their helmets—with a forcefully polite, “Sorry madam, but you can’t come through this way.” 

 

I tried to act the part.

 

“But my baby, my baby is in there!”  I cried pitifully.  Which was a half-truth, not that Jeeves looked the infant type or anything, mind, but I did have someone special in trouble. 

 

It didn’t work.  “Madam, we are doing all we can.”

 

But just like a mother with an endangered child, I wouldn’t give up.  Instead I found an alternative ‘route.’  One they didn’t know of:

 

I went around to some back alleys and started hopping fences like billy-o.

 

This plan soon had me stuck atop a tree. 

 

Now, unless one has had a similar experience involving a similar tree in a similar dress, which is highly doubtful—unless that’s just what one does on a daily basis; who I am to judge?—it is impossible to fully elucidate the immense pain of scampering up unforgiving, scratchy bark.  To climb as high as one can go, sap sticking practically everywhere, and which you know won’t come out of the hair easily, and then to sit on a particularly rough and dry patch of needles that tends to entangle mercilessly with one’s frilly clothing…

 

Yes, unpleasant.  Without question, a pine tree is the worse tree there is to climb—exceptionally so in a tight, Victorian-era, non-breathable dress. 

 

So why did I do it? 

 

Because, there were some things more painful than this vertical log, and they stood beneath me.  There were three of them, in fact: giants with razor teeth—barking and clawing and looking at me as if I’m some sort of fox that they were sent to hunt down.

 

And, for that reason, I really hate dogs.

 

I was stuck in somebody’s garden, but so close I could see the flames. 

 

And it was the Ganymede Club.

 

I groaned.  I knew it would be.  And it was that same certain knowledge that drove me this far and would drive me further. 

 

Because I knew Jeeves was still inside there.

 

I looked down at the growling hounds.  I thought of Jeeves. 

 

And going out on a limb, literally, I fell—rather ungracefully—into the next garden.  At least the dogs were safely behind the fence, but my rapid descent cost me a good whack on the left arm, which throbbed like hell, as it had valiantly broken my fall.

 

Well, if ever there was a time to buck up and take it, I decided, this would be it. 

 

I then charged—or at least attempted to without tripping over that damn dress—at the rest of the obstacles between Jeeves and myself.

 

The rest of my attempts were just as tricky and embarrassing.  So much so that even this Wooster, who has found the heart to write of his awkwardness in every other situation I have ever come across, shudders to think of it.

 

But that is not the point.  The point is—ungracefully or not—I found my way there, to the back entrance of the Ganymede Club. 

 

And damn it all, when I was there, I took action.

 

Now, I’m not the hero-type.  Not at all.  That is to say, I’ve gotten my friends out of a few tight spaces every now and then but nothing akin to, say, running into a burning building. 

 

Well, actually, I did do that once before, but only because someone had to save a cat.  And I’ve run from more smoldering buildings than I care to count.

 

But still, I’d done nothing like those dashing white knights of old charging down the field of battle to save those certainly distressed damsels.    

 

But this was Jeeves.

 

The first thing I did was find a pump and bucket of water, which I preceded to pour down my body.

 

Next there was the matter of opening the iron door handle. 

 

It turned out women’s gloves were good for something, if only for an instance, but it still burned. 

 

I was immediately thrown back by the fire’s intensity.

 

I contemplated my next move.  There was no solid evidence that Jeeves was still in there, and what a bally scene that would result in if Jeeves had made good his escape and I ended up trapped in there. 

 

Sherlock Holmes might not have gone in on that much proof, but I bet if it was Holmes in a burning building Doctor Watson would be on my side.  

 

Jeeves was in there, I just knew it.  And that was that.

 

Recklessly I stepped into the collapsing building. 

 

I had to think fast, which was a pity because thinking was not my forte.  Where would Jeeves be?  I’d only been to the Junior Ganymede Club a handful of times, enough to bungle myself around in some sort of knowing fashion.

 

Initially in that God-awful smoke I dropped down to my knees, as though I were praying (and so what if I was?) or searching for something, to get underneath the smoke’s level.  The second thing I did as I dodged fiery falling beams was berate myself as I tried to whistle a favorite tune to up the nerves and ended up with a lungful of smoke.  I really was a perfect idiot.  People have told me that all my life, but I now began to believe it.

 

But I’d gladly play the fool for Jeeves.

 

Inspiration struck, and since it made such a rare appearance, I went with it.  Thankfully the dress covered most of me to lessen the embers that stung my skin and allowed me to cover my mouth as I looked to the one locked door in the Ganymede Club.  It was still standing.  Maybe, just maybe…

 

“JEEVES!”  I hollered from the outside once I had reached said door.  “JEEVES, ARE YOU IN THERE?”  

 

“Sir?”  Was the tentative reply from behind the door, as though not quite believing his ears—or able to suck the air it took to speak—but it was Jeeves.

 

My heart skipped a beat. 

 

I breathed a sigh of relief, and then coughed for the effort.

 

“No Jeeves, you’re not hallucinating, I’ve come to rescue you!”

 

The first brilliant plan I could come up with included me throwing myself against the door time and time again, until both shoulders were sore.

 

Nothing.  Not a budge.

 

“Sir, I thank you for your attempts but we’re locked in.”  This voice was even more strained and it hurt to listen to.  “There’s no way out.  Kindly remove your presence from this building or you’ll be lost too.”

 

“Nonsense Jeeves,” I replied with all the certainty I could muster, “I’m here to rescue you.”

 

I could go looking for the firemen; they knew how to break down barriers and the like.  But how long would it take to find one?  How long did Jeeves have? 

 

Truth be told I didn’t even know where the exit was from here.

 

I remained silent, looking at the lock.  It was partially melted, which was probably why they couldn’t use the correct key, but—hadn’t Goose insisted on putting berets and, even better, pins in my hair?

 

He had!

 

And I had been known to get into trouble for…

 

“Stand away from the door Jeeves, and don’t try to turn the knob until I say so!”

 

“Sir, please…”

 

I ignored him, instead choosing the longest pair for lock picks.  As I feared, the door was nearly welded shut.  But there was still room to fit the picks…

 

 “JEEVES!”

 

The door swung open and out stumbled a good variety of Men’s Personal Gentlemen.

 

 I only cared about one. 

 

“JEEVES!”  I embraced the man or, perhaps, he fell on me. 

 

“Jeeves, let’s get out of here,” I whispered, as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

 

Jeeves was not Jeeves just then.  His face was ashen, his collar was loosened, and he was breathing in a way that reminded me of a bullfrog in mating season with a sore throat.

 

“We’re getting you lot out of here,” I declared firmly, which was strange—I’ve never taken charge of anything. 

 

“On your hands and knees everyone!  We can talk about how disorderly the whole thing is once we get outside.” 

 

Everyone obeyed, but Jeeves looked up at me in a way I had never seen him look.  “There are others in the room, passed out sir.  What about them?”  He asked.

 

I took his hands.  “If I promise to save every single one, old bean, will you go outside with me now?  I promise.” 

 

He nodded.

 

I made my way to the front of the funniest looking train of rumpled Gentlemen’s Personal Gentlemen I’d ever seen.  Not that I’ve seen that many.  “All right, everybody—hup-two-three-four!  Hup-two-three-four!”  It was after the last four that I realized I didn’t know where I was going.  Everywhere was fire. 

 

Except right there!  Which must be the main entrance, must be the light at the end of a very hot tunnel.

 

“Follow up!  Hup-two-three-four…” 

 

And then there was sunlight.

 

The doctors came immediately, taking one valet from me and another and another until they came upon Jeeves.

 

I resisted, “This one’s mine,” I said in the most serious tone I never knew I had. 

 

The doctor seemed intimidated at first.  Perhaps it was the tone in my voice, or perhaps it was the dress, but then he nodded firmly.  “He’ll get the best of care,” he assured me, and guided Jeeves out of my arms. 

 

“Money’s not a factor,” I yelled after him.  Maybe he heard me, maybe he didn’t.

 

Right now it didn’t matter.  I had a promise to keep.

 

I approached a fireman cautiously.  His eyebrows rose up into his hairline. 

 

“Anything I can do for you, _ma’am_?” he sneered. 

 

“You can tell me how much time we have until the building collapses.”

 

The fireman turned back at his job and looked serious.  “Three to four minutes, tops.”

 

 “Thank you,” I had the urge to curtsy but instead made a mad dash for the Ganymede Club’s entrance, cutting quite ungracefully through policemen and other firemen. 

 

“Let ‘m die,” I heard from somewhere behind me, “Freak.”

 

I had no time to argue this—or any—point. 

 

The fire was hotter still upon reentry.  

 

Just _how_ many men did Jeeves say were still in there?

 

Well, I was going to get them out or die trying.

 

_Please Lord, don’t let me die trying._

 

I didn’t know what had gotten into me… 

 

I wasn’t usually—I wasn’t _ever_ —this brave.

 

But bravery can equal stupidity so maybe I was a bit of both.

 

I ran through the burning door and instinct told me to take two immediate steps back.  Instinct was a right old fellow that day as a beam of fire fell in front of me, blocking my path back to the right door.  What this fire didn’t know was that I was a fast runner and able to jump that beam in a single bound.  Then roll on the floor to put out the fire that it had lit on my dress. 

 

Finally, there was that God-forsaken room. 

 

It turned out there were two men in need of saving. 

 

Two.

 

There wasn’t time to save all of them.

 

And how did you decide which one to save? 

 

“All of them,” Jeeves had asked for all of them. 

 

Without thought, which is a way I approach most of my endeavors, I slew one over one shoulder and one over the other.  I repeat, one over one and one over the other. 

 

This is a feat Jeeves could do.  A Strong Man could do.

 

_Not Bertie Wooster!_

Nor were they tiny children, these were grown adults that I marched right out that front door. 

 

I took a wave at the firemen, policemen, and the newspaper photographers, and promptly fainted. 

 

I came to a moment later, though.  Someone had drug me from the house and lined me up with all the other victims in a neat little row.  The one they had put me next to was…

 

“Jeeves!”

 

My God, was he breathing?

 

I leaned over, pulled him in my lap to see and…

 

Flash! went the light bulbs.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Jeeves, you’re sacked!”

 

            I cleared my throat scrupulously; it was doing a corking good impression of the Saharan Desert.  Even in practice I found I squeaked as badly as a misplayed fiddle.  “Come now, Bertie,” I’d ask myself.  “Are you a man or a mouse?”  I no longer knew.  The only indication I had that I wasn’t the latter was I hadn’t yet grown a tail, though I certainly felt small enough to fit into a mouse’s hole.  I think in either form I’d have a rough time dealing with this.  Except perhaps as a mouse I could run and hide and maybe nibble at some cheese—but I digress.  More or less exhausted, I collapsed back in my chair sans dignity.  The world as I knew it was crumbling.  Well, dash it… let’s just say I finally proved Columbus wrong about it being round; mine was flat and desolate, in the manner of that desert I was talking about earlier.

 

            There I was sitting alone in the freezing cold foyer of my apartment, England having evolved into the Arctic during the night, far from the safety of a warm bed and fluffy pillows.  Now admittedly, I’m not the smartest bloke to ever live—that would be Jeeves—and while my Aunt Agatha would take all liberties in calling me the knave in the Wooster deck of cards, thus far before I had been able to avoid such a grievous a mistake as this one.  

 

            And for another, it was still pitch black, inside and out, even with my eyes wide open and no sign of dawn for a while to come.  I endeavor to never make this gaffe a habit in my daily life, though I know some dunces rise ritually around this time.  Never did quite grasp the point of that…  I mean, I recognize that ‘the early bird catches the worm’ may very well be true, but who on earth would want a worm?  For that matter who’s a bird?  I really don’t see how this applies to anyone with sense!  And yet, here I was, couldn’t have been more than a quarter past five, already up and about.  

 

            Ever heard of the adage a bright morning bodes a wet afternoon?  I shuddered at the thought of what this dark and dismal one would herald.  Of course, even if a cheerfully sunny day emerges it will be shadowed; after all, does a bright day not bring forth the adder and crave wary walking also?  Not that I live in a place with adders mind.  I don’t think that there are many snakes in London anyway… 

 

            It’s absolutely right to believe I’m talking through my hat. 

 

            I know it’s unheard of for me, but “up and about” was a stretch in that it only applied if the words were suddenly changed to define an unshaven man with puffy red bags under the eyes and made a grab for whatever pants happened to fall out of the old wardrobe first. 

 

            The shirt I was dressed in also strangely resembled the one I wore yesterday—soot, ash, smudges and all—in that it was the same one I wore yesterday. 

            I hadn’t gotten a single wink last night either, utterly failing the family, for we Woosters are renowned for hardy sleeping habits.  Like I said, nighttime is highly valuable, and the quickest way for a payoff was to try and wake this Wooster, who’d give shillings and pounds if it came to that for a good and undisturbed snore fest.

 

            Still, even though I had haunted the halls most of the night, scaring off every ghoul who had previously designated the job, I had never bothered with making the effort of changing the blasted top.  Jeeves certainly wasn’t in any condition to do so.

 

            Not all was oojah-cum-spiff in the Wooster household.  Dark and sinister forces were gathering.  This was only the calm before the storm.  Or maybe it was the eye of the hurricane, because yesterday had been fairly ripe too.

 

            Let’s just say for now I wasn’t the only one singed. 

 

            And for once, there was little to blame on the femme fatale of the week.

 

            And as it is apt to do—nothing attracts misfortune better than misfortune—more trouble came my way when I first unfolded the newspaper. 

 

            But it was nothing I hadn’t already anticipated.

 

            Being already wide awake I had previously heard the milkman making his rounds.  I then waited impatiently for the paperboy to make his delivery before I endeavored to make an appearance and retrieve them both. 

 

            Quietly I picked them up, careful not to so much as glance at the rolled up paper lest, knowing if what I thought to be there most certainly was, I would drop the whole kit and caboodle.  Then where would I be?  There’d be shattered glass, spilled milk, and me weeping in the frame of the front door—loud enough to bring the neighbors to ill-tempered attention that much faster.

 

            Milk jugs safely stored in the fridge without losing a drop, it was with a heavy heart and the greatest apprehension imaginable that I proceeded back to my spot on the sofa, the atmosphere around me as grave as a funeral’s. 

 

            And something told me that sooner, rather than later, I was to attend my own—would anyone even bother to write a eulogy?

 

            For from the moment I had plucked that morning’s edition from the floor an ominous chill had run throughout this Wooster.

 

            All the eyes needed to afford was a brief glimpse at the front page and title.  That was enough to make me freeze up in what can only be explained as the sheerest of misery. 

 

            The article and the incriminating picture contained within—there was no denying against evidence of that sort—are all permanently seared into my memory.  I daresay all I wanted was to close my eyes and never open them again.  But I couldn’t stop staring in growing horror.

 

            I have no shame in admitting in that moment I could no more choke the Groan of Ultimate Despair that was fighting tooth and nail to get out than I could breathe.  What did the poet chappie say?  “Everyone can master a grief but him that has it?”  Then I’d like to see everyone master this.

 

            There’s something about suddenly seeing what’s right in front of you all those years—and in knowing the entire populace of London now saw it too.  It’s a feeling I cannot explain, except perhaps by using the words ‘soul-crushingly awful’ as a broad generalization and letting it go from there. 

 

            It was then I had decided—truly decided—that something had to be done for the ‘Greater Good’.  And I had to be the one to do it. 

 

            For both of us, for him—it was mostly for him actually.  No alternatives, no other choice, no need to really think it through. 

 

            There could but one plan of action.  And once we Woosters chart the course, no matter how treacherous the sea ahead, though the waves may be fearfully high, we sail on through.  By the Code we stick to it.  I had no choice in the matter. 

 

            I had to take a stand.

 

            So I tried it aloud, again, in the barest of whispers:

 

            “You’re sacked, Jeeves”

 

            I shivered.  


	6. Chapter 6

I had plenty of time to mull the thing over.

 

Seven and a half years is how long Jeeves has been in my services, give or take the few months of that Brinkley/banjolele affair.    

 

Jeeves’ only mistake in life was choosing me for an employer, and he can’t be held responsible for that one tiny oversight.

 

Yet he’d have to pay for it dearly—unless I could help it.

 

I on the other hand, well—

 

Initially, intentionally or unintentionally (I assure you it was not intentional but there are those who would debate me on the fact—Aunt Agatha) I was a problem child.  Every single aunt out there will vouch for this, some under the impression I still haven’t changed.  And darn it, after all this, maybe they’re right. 

 

Ever since my parents died I’ve been passed from aunt to aunt to uncle and back to aunt because of it.

 

Anyone who knows me knows I’m ‘accident prone’, that I cause things to go wrong.  Mayhem and chaos follow in my wake.  ‘Bertie the Blunderer’ I’m called.  If someone needs blaming, or if blaming needs someone, I’m your man. 

 

It’s what I’m good for, now that nothing’s left of my tattered reputation. 

 

Do I come across as embittered?  I shouldn’t, it’s just the way things are, even though I had managed to do something brave and noble and right for once.  Ah well, ‘no good deed goes unpunished’ I guess the fellow once said...

 

And quite a depressing fellow he must have been at that.

 

Yes, I know, this is not like me.  I usually am the one to look on the bright side of things, the silver lining, the greener grass... but I digress.

 

Jeeves’ reputation and status, despite long being my attendant, had somehow—miraculously—remained unblemished.  His character and standing were such that he managed to restore morale on more than one occasion when the Wooster Walking Disaster struck.

 

The point of it is that there was simply no way for Jeeves to repair the latest of my rummy messes this time around. 

 

This was really getting thick.  So, it was time to break out the ol’e cheque and balances trick.  Surely, somewhere, there was hope?

 

Debit:  Credit, Jeeves is leaving us!  Please, give something more than your sympathies!

 

Credit:  ………

 

Debit:  Ah, Credit?

 

Credit:  ………

 

 Debit:  I see… am I to assume… that is, is it safe to say… you’ve got nothing, do you?

 

Credit:  Nope.  Not a thing.

 

Debit:  No thing?

 

Credit:  Nothing.

 

Debit:  I see… well you mustn’t blame yourself old chap.

 

Credit:  It’s dashed hard to find something good in a situation that’s just plain rotten!

 

Debit:  I quite agree.

 

Credit:  You’ve got the easiest job of us both actually, listing off all the dreadfulness…

 

Debit:  You could say that.

 

Credit:  Like how we’ll be all alone forever now, we’re most likely doomed to marriage...

 

Debit:  I say!  That is bad!

 

Credit:  Or else we’ll have to flee the country, get a new identity, and never speak to friends…

 

Debit:  Sorry to butt in like this but you are rather neglecting your duties here…

 

Credit: …or family!  There, that’s the silver lining!  We’ll never hear from Aunt Agatha!

 

Debit: ………

 

Credit:  Well? 

 

Debit:  I’m still considering the matter…

 

Credit:  Of course, of course, take your time.

 

Debit:  Somehow, now don’t take this the wrong way, but it doesn’t quite cut it…

 

Credit:  I know, it was all I could come up with on short notice.

 

Debit:  I’m dreadfully sorry.  Please don’t beat yourself up over it, you did your best.

 

Credit:  Yes, but I’ve still got nothing.

 

Debit:  Not a thing.

 

Credit:  No-thing, nothing.

 

So the goods weren’t delivered, but I think Debit’s right apropos of Credit’s efforts.  We simply can’t go about blaming Credit for there being nothing advantageous in the situation.  I mean really, dash it all, when Credit started in on Debit’s role, I knew then the whole thing had been for naught.  It was a blighter of a problem to begin with. 

 

On the other hand, I really hadn’t ever considered the origin of the word ‘nothing’.  Very interesting and dashed odd, their combining the word ‘no-thing’ like that what.  I mean why’d they do it?  Were two separate words simply too difficult to say, split as they were?  Did someone once just say it incredibly fast and it stuck?  Perhaps a foreigner pronounced it wrong but the chaps around him didn’t want to embarrass him by correcting it…  Do they really have the same meaning ‘nothing’ and ‘no-thing’ or is there a slight discrepancy between them?

 

Focus, Bertie, focus!  You’ll have plenty of time to dwell on absolutely nothing—or no-thing as the case may be—later.  Because that’s all you’ll have soon!

 

Which is a mite bit depressing if you ask me.

 

It was around this time and thought that Jeeves chose to make his appearance.  I was personally hoping he would stay abed all day.  That would have given me time to get away with my plan.  Instead here he was and here I was and at some point between us one of us would have to speak.

 

Thankfully nobody said, ‘ _Good morning!’_

 

I held the dreaded article—that is, the actual article of incriminating newspaper—to my breast and hardly dared to breathe.

 

To make the occasion rarer, if you could, Jeeves himself was not in valet kit.  He wore instead pajamas and a dressing gown.

 

Jeeves looked horrified that he had been caught in such a state but was too weary to do much more about it than to walk behind a sofa, to use as a shield.

 

He shouldn’t have bothered.  In my mind nothing would ever be the same again.

 

“Sir—?”  He started off, and then went into such a coughing frenzy as to make me cringe.  I was having the same problem, of course, from the ash—just not as severe.

 

“Sir, what are you doing up so early again?”

 

I could hardly make light of this like I wished to do.

 

“Sit down, Jeeves,” I commanded.  And I don’t think I’ve ever ordered anyone to do anything so impolitely before, ever. 

 

Jeeves visibly stiffened but came around from his side of the sofa and did as told, countenance fatigued but as usual revealing nothing more than a stuffed frog would. 

 

I guess it was good to have a little familiarity.

 

“Jeeves,” I began, “As you are well aware of, certain circumstances have conspired against us, leaving other circumstances themselves to conspire against us too. 

 

“Things cannot remain unchanged and what has been changed cannot be unchanged either.  We must set sails for a different course, be different people, see a different light.  In short, our time together—the greatest time of my life—has come to an end.” 

 

“Sir—”

 

“You’ll let me finish, Jeeves.  While you have slept I have been plotting—and don’t give me that look, Jeeves.  It’s for the best, and I think I did a rather sporting job of it this time.  Not like…  Well, there’s too much to go through and only so little time left.  For all your dashed wonderful years of service, I will not let our parting be a grim one.  This flat is paid up for the next three months in your name or until you have found something suitable in the way of employment.  I know every single friend of mine is dead set on hiring you.  Especially Goose, since he feels particularly responsible for the incident—as well he should.  But you might like him.  He doesn’t wear purple socks at least…”

 

“But sir—”

 

“That’ll be enough of that, Jeeves.  There is nothing left to protest.  I leave on the earliest train and I won’t be telling you its destination.  And don’t try following me either, Jeeves.  The doctor said you should stay in bed for at least a few days.  And don’t try paying my friends to disclose which station I'll be at, I’ve already paid them a modest amount to keep their mouths shut from you.   

 

“There’s one thing left of course—my Aunt Dahlia.  I have this note for her apologizing for tarnishing the Wooster name, which I shall no longer hold.  I trust you’ll get it to her.”

 

“Mr. Wooster, really, this is not—”

 

“…necessary?”  I sighed.  “Yes, Jeeves, it is.  If nothing else, know that I do this for you.  Now my bags are packed.  The actors, as they were, are in place.  And the director—that’s me—has yelled action!” 

 

With that I exited—who cares if I did it dignifiedly or not—to my room to change into a traveling suit and fetch my bags.

 

As expected, Jeeves was there barring the door when I came back. 

 

“Jeeves, you’re not thinking this through.”  I tried gently, the look on his face that of a scared sheep.

 

“I am trying to sir, believe me, I _am_ trying.”

 

I set down my bags and stood directly in front of him and, looking him straight in the eye, I said, “There is no alternative to the matter, Jeeves.  Not even you yourself could come up with one, even if you weren’t in such a daze at present.  I am frightfully sorry to spring this on you old bean but… between the choices of either my losing you or having you and I face sentencing for gross misconduct—the thought that any kind of misconduct would ever apply to you is ludicrous!—I’m afraid there’s really no contest in my mind.  With what could be done to sully your reputation, not to mention you…  There are many things in life this Wooster can withstand, but you in manacles in gaol doing hard labor is not one of them.  For once, let me try to repay your every kindness.” 

 

And what could a man, especially a Gentleman’s Personal Gentleman, say to all that?

 

“But sir…”

 

“That’ll do, Jeeves.  And do me one last favor?  Wait to read the morning paper until well after I am gone.  Then you will truly understand me.”

 

And with one last heart wrenching “Tootle-pip!”  I was gone.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Goose and I had coordinated an escape plan the night before.  As soon as I had seen a still traumatized Jeeves to bed—with a glass of water and a bell I insisted he take lest he need me—Goose rang me up.  The situation was awful, he stated, as if it needed stating.  The conversation went something like this:

 

Goose: “This is bally awful, Bertie.”

 

Me:  “Tell me something I don’t know Goose, old pal.”

 

Goose:  “Okay then, the police are out everywhere looking for you!”

 

Me:  “What?  They are?  For me?”

 

Goose:  “Well, they’re looking for the man in the dress.  They’ll find out it was you in that dress soon though—it’s only a matter of time.  They’re hell-bent on arresting you for gross misconduct.”

 

Me:  “Me?  Doing something gross?  What the devil do you mean?  What am I to be put in the clinker for this time, Goose?  I thought I jolly well did some good today.”

 

Goose:  “No, no, no, you don’t understand, Bertie!  This jail time isn’t for a night or two, it’s for years!  Haven’t you ever heard of a bloke named Oscar Wilde?”

 

Me:  “Well, no… should I have?”

 

Goose:  “Bertie, please tell me you’re being _intentionally_ _dense_.”

 

Me:  “I would never!  I just don’t keep up with the outside world of politics and such.  Jeeves usually tells me what I need to know, I trust his judgment, and he never informed me about this… whatever _this_ is.”

 

Goose:  “So you were sheltered, that explains that.”

 

Me:  “For the last time Goose, explains _what_?” 

 

Goose:  “Oscar Wilde was sent to Reading Gaol for gross misconduct.  For once in your life pay attention, Bertie!  You may suffer the same fate!”

 

Me:  “Well, what is this misconduct that I have committed, and how gross was it to earn such a fate?”

 

Goose:  “That’s the thing, Bertie.  You haven’t committed any of it!”

 

Me:  “I say!  Then what’s all the fuss about old bean?”

 

Goose:  “Tomorrow all of England will think you did.  It’ll be in the papers Bertie, I guarantee it.  Front page and center, a picture of you in that…”

 

Me:  “Goose, for once in your life come straight with me, what is it that I haven’t done that they think I’ve done and that will cause me to join this Oscar—was that his name?—for in the clinker?”

 

Goose:  “My fault entirely really.  If I hadn’t…  You were seen in drag—women’s clothing on men—in public, Bertie.”

 

Me:  “So what’s so wrong with that?  I’ve had to wear women’s togs before.  Even Jeeves did it.  No harm, no foul.”

 

Goose:   “You did…?  Never mind, that was around a small group of company, I’m guessing, nary a one police officer right?”

 

Me:  “You guessed right.”

 

Goose:  “And they never figured out you were a man?”

 

Me:  “Spot on!”

 

Goose:  “Somewhere in the fire your wig came off, Bertie.  Everyone there knew, without a doubt, you were male.”

 

Me:  “That’s… true.  So what of it?”

 

Goose:  “Oh for Christ’s sake—they think you do more than dress in women’s things, they think you commit buggery!”

 

Me:  “Buggery?”

 

Goose:  “Bertie, listen to me.  It’s when two fellows are sleeping together—no—are making love with each other.  SEXUAL INTERCOURSE!  A man with a man.  Not a man with a lady.  Got that, Bertie?”

 

Me:  “Is… is that even… possible?  And did you have to yell that part of… well, that part.”

 

Goose:  “How else was I going to get through to you, Bertie?  I’m a medical man, I use medical terms.  Now as I was explaining it is possible because…”

 

Me:  “Thank you!  I don’t need particulars!”

 

Goose:  “So you see how dire our situation has become?”

 

Me:  “Lord-love-a-duck!  Can’t we just explain away what happened?  I mean I don’t, I’m not…”

 

Goose:  “Of course not, Bertie.  But we have to think practically.  There’s no one who will understand, or believe, your story.  You shall have to flee the country.” 

 

Me:  “B-but, where would I go?  Who would I be?  This is my home…”

 

Several hours later we came up with a plan.  A scheme that was mostly to save Jeeves—apparently he too would be dragged to gaol simply for being my valet if I didn’t get out!—which is why it was so bally important for this to work.

 

As aforementioned I hadn’t gotten a wink since “The Incident,” but for the first time I could rest easy as the train chugged from London to Southampton with me and Goose on it.  Not that I’d be safe there mind, but it was an easy hop across the English Channel and on to the south of France.  At least I hoped it’d be easy.  I can just see Scotland Yard sending out the troops north, south, east, and west; all after this Wooster’s hide. 

 

Now, about that paper I’ve been so adamant about hiding this whole time.  I'll finally unfold its awfulness.  And, well, tell its truth. 

 

Headline: “Queen saves all!” 

 

Now at first one might think this might refer to an actual monarch of sorts, although I doubt very much whether King George the Fifth would actually take to being called a queen.  No, but unless one is an Englishman—or so Goose explained to me last night—they would not understand that “queen” is slang for sodomite. 

 

And a sodomite is… something bad.

 

But it was the picture that sealed my fate, as Goose predicted it would. 

 

As I gaze at it now, I can’t believe my eyes, for all these years… how obvious it should have been!  Maybe I was…

 

It consisted of me—in that wretched dress and _sans_ wig—holding an unconscious Jeeves and looking down at him with tenderness that none can mistake. 

 

In all my photos in all my albums, never before have I seen myself so enamored, in such a dreamy state that I could almost count the stars in my eyes.  It was the eyes that did it.  Maybe I could have explained the rest away, but the eyes… they shone of devotion.  And my trademark goofy smile completed it.

 

“God save the Queen” was written underneath it.

 

So I was one of those lowly creatures people talk about in whispers and jests.  It was becoming exceedingly clear that I _was_ an aesthete, a lover of men… or at least one man.  I was a homosexual—the medical term Goose taught me.  Although I didn’t tell him that I was one, of course.

 

Slowly everything started to click.  Why I preferred the presence of men to women.  How I had failed to be seduced by a woman’s charm.  Why I was the only bachelor amongst the married.  One of nature’s bachelors, I had called myself, was it actually a euphemism for this?

 

On the train ride down, I have to admit this, I—a proud cavalier of a man—cried.


	8. Chapter 8

_Sans_ Jeeves is a situation in which I had never fancied to find myself in.  Jeeves had very often generously avowed himself to me, not in so many words but in action and deeds.  It was I who so freely offered declarations of devotedness and everlasting friendship, which for naught are now meaningless and remain unfulfilled.  Yet every last one of his knowing eyebrow arches and secretive coughs I can dredge up from memory are most precious to me still.  I speak in drivels and dead-poet’s rubbish, I know, but honestly, nothing’s the same without my man.  Sad and lonely is this Wooster’s condition… testimony to how bad my fortunes have turned without my lucky star to shine down on me, my guardian angel now incapable of standing beside me.

 

I did make it to the south of France, and on a whim, with what money I had left, bought a cottage in the country side with groves of grapes.  Little did I know that later that year workers would come and pick those grapes for me.  And out of said grapes would be made wine.  And on that wine I’d make a small fortune, not unlike the one I held in England.  Now, if I so chose, I could support another gentleman’s personal gentleman.  But it was of no use to me, I would never go back that way again.  It was too painful.  Plus, who could replace Jeeves?  Once you’ve had the best…

 

I knew he would never find me, I made sure of that.  Though my French was at first sparse, I communicated well enough that I just wanted to be left alone.    

 

Besides money and this house, memories are all I’ve got now.  Memories are what matter.

 

On the other hand, I’d gotten damn good at solitaire lately. 

 

But that’s not the point. 

 

I was never very good at pacing.  I wasn’t, in fact, all that fond of pacing.  I remember my friends could do it.  Jeeves could do it, on rare occasion.  But I couldn’t do it.  I always ended up tripping over myself, or a chair, or a rug, or some other nearby item. 

 

Tonight it wasn’t just the pacing itself that I despised.  Tonight it was also the setting of the pacing, the South of France.  It was the time of the pacing, six months past.  It was the absolute uselessness of the pacing.

 

Some people pace in patterns, some in step and rhythm, I was lucky to count off twelve steps to the door and back. 

 

I tried not to be too clumsy about it, but that wasn’t quite possible for me. 

 

My mind was other places, other countries, with other people—well with one person—and as such that bit of hardened air invariably got to me. 

 

I stumbled, flew inelegantly into my chair, the hard oak wood doing nothing to soften my fall.  The chair itself was almost just as clumsy, tipping, as it tried to wobble me off.  But I held firm and finally all the jerking and the rocking stopped in front of my desk.  My desk of course being the last place I wanted to be.  Well, maybe not the last place.  The last place I want to be was where I already was. 

 

I fiddled with my tie, one Jeeves would never approve of, with pink polka dots on a purple background.  I fiddled with all the pencils on the desk, knocking a few to the floor.  I turned on and off the lamp a few times.  I drummed my fingers against the desk to different beats.  I whistled.  I looked out the window.  I glanced around my living room.  But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, which could capture my attention so much as the blank sheet of paper in front of me.  With a sigh, I gave in.  I had to write.  The poison had to be bled off.  It was with unsteady hands and an unsteady heart and choked back tears that I picked up my pen.  Black ink and white paper, I began.   

 

Memories…

 

I hated and loved that Jeeves could read me so well.  It oft helped in that I didn’t really need to explain myself in any circumstance.  I could wake each morning and he would always be there, exactly two minutes later, with kippers and eggs sunny-side up.  But if and when I wished to keep something from him, an act admittedly seldom and limited in its incidence, I had as much of a chance at getting anything by him as I did of walking out the front door in a checkered kilt with bagpipes.  

 

I somehow unintentionally continued to reveal to him much more than my words ever intended.  Usually, he ignored it—nice of him—until I was ready to spill the beans.  But every once in a while he’d poke and prod and nettle… and it never took much.

 

Take one such incidence:

 

Jeeves: (picking up the phone) “Jeeves.”

 

Self:  “...”

 

Jeeves:  “Hello?”

 

Self:  “…”

 

Jeeves:  “Is anyone there?”

 

Self:  “What ho, Jeeves—old thing.  How’s your holiday going?”

 

Jeeves:  “Mr. Wooster, is something wrong?” 

 

Self:  “I… I didn’t mean to trouble you Jeeves… or intrude.  I know you’re on holiday.” 

 

Jeeves:  “Sir, please, what has upset you?”

 

Self:  “You can tell?  Is it really that bad?”

 

Jeeves:  “Your voice does have a certain quiver to it, sir, that is absent in your regularly buoyant speech.”

 

Self:  “Blast it, Jeeves, I’ve never been much of a chap for hiding myself from anyone, and I’ve certainly never been successful about it around you… not that I’d ever want to hide myself from you… that is to say, while I don’t necessarily wear my feelings on my sleeve, mind…”

 

Jeeves:  “Sir?”

 

Self:  “Jeeves I… I shouldn’t be calling you in the first place.  It’s not like there’s a bally thing you can do about this…”

 

Jeeves:  “Would you be so kind as to specify the problem, sir?” 

 

Self:  “I… I don’t know if I can really…”

 

Jeeves:  “Please sir, just tell me, are you all right?”

 

Self:  “Oh!  Oh, I’m fine, Jeeves… well, not fine, but in good health at least, which is more than I can say for…” 

 

Jeeves:  “Sir?”

 

Self:  “Jeeves, I’m here at Brinkley Court, and my Aunt Dahlia is fighting off a bad case of something or other, they’re not sure of it yet, but it’s bad and... and while I _realize_ there is nothing you and that whopper of a brain of yours can do…”

 

Jeeves:  “Sir, I should arrive there sometime tomorrow morning.  Please try to get some rest in the meantime and avoid any undue strain.”

 

Self:  “But Jeeves!” 

 

And here it should be mentioned that, for the first and last time in my life, the man had hung up on me!

 

I remember, upon that occasion, waking up to find Jeeves at the bedside with tea ready the next morning did the heart good.  I smiled at the sight, something I hadn’t done in days, and my spirit—suppressed til Jeeves freed me—gave a twitter that let me know it was still there.  He made to offer apologies for my aunt’s poor state, while at the same time I made to apologize profusely against dragging him once again away from his well-earned r&r, and on a midnight train no less!  He held up a hand against it.

 

“You know that it is my greatest joy to serve you, sir.”

 

And I'll be damned if the Wooster eyes didn’t tear up a little at that, the Wooster lip wobble just a bit.  The fact that he had known that I had needed him, when I hadn’t realized it myself—that I hadn’t so much as needed to request the privilege of his soothing presence.  Well, it’s enough to make any man’s bottom lip quiver.

 

And then there was that constant comfort that drove away moments of insecurity:

 

Self:  “You know, it’s rather rum.  I mean, don’t you think it rum Jeeves?”

 

Jeeves:  “Sir?”

 

Self:  “That I’ve been engaged to so many girls and in the end nothing’s worked out.”

 

Jeeves:  “Well, sir, none were really entirely suitable.”

 

Self:  “Oh, dash it all Jeeves, I know that.  I haven’t truly loved a single one of them.  But that’s all right because none of them ever really loved me either.  Well dash it all, it gets a fellow wondering though…”

 

Jeeves:  “Sir?”

 

Self: “Is there something terribly wrong with me, Jeeves?  I mean, you’d let me know if there was, wouldn’t you?”

 

Jeeves:  “Sir?  Mr. Wooster?”

 

Self:  “Well, I was just… pondering—as a particularly philosophical bloke like me is bound to do from time to time—most likely it’s nonsense but… you’re sure there’s nothing wrong with me, Jeeves?  I mean, is it just my unwillingness to commit or…”

 

Jeeves:  “I’m afraid I’m not following you, sir.”

 

Self:  “What I mean to say was… is… well… does being ‘essentially one of Nature’s bachelors’ mean I am incapable of loving someone?”

 

Jeeves:  (adamantly) “No, sir!”

 

Self:  “Are you sure?  You were a little quick on that.  You’re not just protecting the young master in this are you?  That is, you would tell me if that really were the case wouldn’t you, Jeeves?  Would save a man a lot of heartache to know...”

 

Jeeves: “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you sir, in that regard.”

 

Self: “I don’t believe you, Jeeves.”

 

Jeeves:  “You always speak very highly of Mrs. Travers, sir.”

 

Self:  “Well, my Aunt Dahlia’s my aunt, Jeeves, and a good egg.  Everybody loves her.  But I’m talking about the passionate, embracing kind.  The ‘true love’ that are found in all those overly romantic and cheesy novels.”

 

Jeeves:  “You speak perhaps sir, as the poet Hume once put it, ‘Love is the perfect sum of all delight’?”

 

Self:  “Yes, Jeeves, that’s the one.  Does such exist?  Or is it just for everyone but me?”

 

Jeeves: “If I might be so bold as to comment sir, and only within the complete confidence of you and I, the fault, Mr. Wooster, I believe lies not with you, but with every member of the female populace you have ever been engaged to.  In the end the mistake is theirs.”

 

Self: “And what mistake is that, Jeeves?” 

 

Jeeves: “Ultimately, they are the ones that leave you.”

 

I was rooted to the spot.  The sigh of woe and self-pity was halted.  My throat, I confess, had frankly tightened a bit, as though someone with a wrench had been squeezing. 

 

Self: “Thank you, Jeeves.” 

 

And if I was a bit choked, what of it?  I meant every word.

 

Self: “Jeeves?”

 

Jeeves: “Yes, Mr. Wooster?”

 

Self: “I’m jolly glad you didn’t.”

 

Jeeves: “Sir?”

 

Self: “Make that mistake.”

 

Jeeves: “Indeed sir, as am I.”

 

I have never before included these in any of my previous memoirs simply because I found it too personal, somehow.  Something shared between just the two of our souls.  However, since this latest installment will doubtlessly remain unread, instead to be thrown into a shallow, unmarked grave somewhere along with me, I have no qualms about sharing it now. 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

It was a nightmare—well, this whole bally episode has been a nightmare, but I’m talking about an actual one, in the singular—which woke me.  I’d been tossing and turning for what seemed like ages.  My brain, perhaps in figuring that if it couldn’t return me to Jeeves by sheer reason alone—which I constantly argued back that it was for reason’s sake I left—had decided to besiege me with disquieting images of the man in question being somehow or other harmed.  More often than not it was a different ending to that blasted Ganymede fire, or the fire that had consumed my parents took from me Jeeves as well.  Again and again I awoke shaking and sweating and swearing and without the proper resources available—Jeeves or brandy—to take care of my distressed state. 

 

In retrospect it could also have been the thunderstorm booming away outside that got this Wooster startled.  It was going on as if God wanted to shake the place up like billy-o.  And then there was the sleet pouring on the rooftops, upon which I prayed wouldn’t be leaking into the house more than the pots beneath the seepage could hold. 

 

Or it could have been the loud, firm, and incessant pounding of the front door knocker that did the trick.

 

Groggily I registered that it played a somewhat familiar rhythmic and purposeful beat.  But in my state of half-consciousness it didn’t register that nothing should be familiar here, especially not at approximately half past the bewitching hour.  By the time I undid the latch and felt the door knob gyrating beneath my hand, I realized idly that—judging by the time of night and the forcefulness of the knocker clashing upon my door—it was most likely a psychopath come to murder me in my sleep, but belatedly realizing he didn’t have a key to sneak in.  I absentmindedly wondered if he would let me go back to sleep before he did the job.

 

In the doorway was a tall man—as tall as Jeeves I reckon—a dark figure, hunched over from the hail now batting down like a million tennis balls against the roof and him.  The black cloak he was using to keep the rain out covered his head and shaded his face.

 

So I was right after all.  It was a failed assassination attempt—failed most likely because of the weather—and now the assassin, probably sent by Aunt Agatha, having bungled the job, was looking for shelter. 

 

Well never let it be said a Wooster… well, no, I’m not a Wooster any longer.  I had adopted the last name of “Kent” in the village, a common name—well, common enough not to be noticed.  At any rate, let it not be said that I turn anyone away to plunge back into the darkness of the storm.  I may not be a Wooster anymore but I stick to the Code.  Besides, it is just common decency!  I would surely hope that this chap would let me into his abode if the situation were reversed. 

 

I saw hesitation on the man outside and so quickly acted. 

 

“Come in, come in, you must be freezing!  Poor fellow.  Here, let me take your hat and jacket.  I'll place them in front of the fireplace to dry.  I'll place you there as well, once I light the bally thing, I can’t imagine anyone in… this… weather…”  I trailed off.  For in front of my very eyes, I rubbed them a few times to be sure, was a very sopping wet…

 

Jeeves!

 

I had to be wrong.  Hallucinating, yes, that’s the word.  I had to be.  There was simply no way that the figure in front of me, who had now courteously removed all his wet outer garbs, could be Him! 

 

“Thank you kindly, sir,” he said.

 

I was wrong.

 

And I was frozen where I stood. 

 

“It can’t be him, it can’t be him, it can’t be him,” was my whispered mantra as I finally got a hold of myself enough to take a few steps forward towards...  

 

“ _Jeeves_ ,” I called out in a strangled voice.

 

“Yes, sir,” he responded, as if six months hadn’t just passed between us and we were back at our old flat in London. 

 

“But what…?  How…?  Why…?  How can this be?”  I ended up stuttering, having a million questions and one, and the ability to think up more if need be.

 

But then I heard in the quiet between us the sound of chattering teeth.  Since they weren’t mine trying to mark the pace of “47 Ginger-headed Sailors,” then they must be his.  That was a quick bit of deductive logic on my part. 

 

“Get out of those clothes at once, Jeeves; you’re soaked through to the bone!  I have a nice bathroom where you can draw yourself a nice _warm_ bath.”

 

“Sir, I didn’t come here to trouble you.”

 

“Trouble?  Absolute rubbish.  I’m betting you didn’t come all the way here only to freeze to death in the young master’s foyer either?” 

 

“No, I admit I did not, sir.”

 

“Then go and do as you are told.” 

 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

 

It was too easy to slip back into the old routine I realized.  This had to be nipped in the bud. 

 

“I’m not ‘sir’, not anymore, Jeeves.”

 

As I steered him into the bathroom, I recognized I was still in such a state of awe that I was functioning on autopilot.  How else would I have ever spoken to Jeeves in such a manner?  Normally he takes charge.  Had our situations been reversed?

 

It was hours before he emerged—no, really, it was only minutes, but it felt like hours.  It was long enough to convince me that he wasn’t really here.  But then I, curious as to whether I was right or wrong about his presence—was I mad or simply hopeful?—pressed my head against the locked door and heard the filling of the tub. 

 

So he was here.

 

Jeeves was here.

 

_How was that possible?_

 

I knew I had covered all my steps; he shouldn’t have been able to track me here.  I lived on the outskirts of a remote little village nobody knew about.  The people here didn’t know me as Bertie Wooster.  They knew nothing of my past and nobody asked too many questions.  So how…?

 

And yet, of course, it is Jeeves I’m talking about.

 

So maybe, all in all, I shouldn’t be that surprised.

 

I heard the bathroom door creak, then open. 

 

Out popped Jeeves wearing my dressing gown—which was several inches too low for him—and my ducky slippers. 

 

I felt the first smile creep up on me since I left England.  

 


	10. Chapter 10

My rubber ducky was a source of nostalgia for me.  The only thing I truly possessed from England.  I loved it more than anything I owned, even the Steinway grand piano I had managed to acquire.  So when I saw a peddler one morning selling ducky slippers, my sense of nostalgia drove me full force and I ended up buying every single pair he owned. 

 

So I am now in possession of five pairs of ducky slippers. 

 

Just in case one gets ruined or worn and torn, you see.

 

And so it seemed that Jeeves had already found and, unbelievably, approved of my ducky slippers. 

 

Well, maybe not “approved,” but any port in a storm, and in this case it really was storming.

 

“Sir, I apologize for borrowing your dressing gown and slippers…” 

 

The aforementioned slippers appeared to be too small for him, Jeeves having had a considerable advantage over me in the foot department.  Still they seemed to warm him and do the trick.

 

“…I didn’t bring any of my things along…”  Jeeves continued.

 

Somewhere, the Wooster heart plummeted. 

 

‘ _Bertie,’_ I chided myself, _‘you don’t actually think he’ll stay forever, do you?’_

I wasn’t sure what I thought at that time.

 

 “…in case they got soaked as well.” 

 

Wait, what was that? 

 

What did that mean?

 

“What brings you here, Jeeves?”  I asked, in a manner as close to unrevealing as I got.  I didn’t want him to see my hope, my despair, my longing, or any other feeling I had towards the man.  

 

If he detected any of the above he certainly didn’t show it. 

 

“You, sir.”

 

“I, what?” 

 

“I came here for you, sir.”

 

“For _me_?”  I was flabbergasted to say the least.  I hadn’t thought anybody would put that much effort into—well, finding me.  I certainly haven’t seen the boys from the Drones Club, or any aunts for that matter, around—hadn’t even heard a word from my sister either.  It saddened me but after that scandal, what’s there to say? 

 

‘ _What’s there to say, indeed?’_   I thought to myself.

 

“Why on earth would you want to do something like that?” I inquired with such confusion as to briefly wonder what direction was up and which was down.

 

“Finding you was of great urgency to me, Mr. Wooster.”

 

I sighed.  I didn’t understand.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Jeeves.” 

 

And here the man actually turned his gaze away from me and down to the ducky slippers.  I was amazed.  Jeeves always talked looking me straight in the eye.  What was this fever that had gripped him? 

 

“Life…” he hesitated.  “Life hasn’t been the same without you, sir.”

 

There was a long pause. 

 

“You just haven’t given it enough time yet.  Jeeves, if as sad and silly a little man as I…”

 

“Please do not refer to yourself as such, sir!”  He looked up, as though personally affronted by my words.

 

“…can muddle his way through the world,” I continued, ignoring him.  “Then surely a great logician and truth-seeker such as yourself should have no problems…”

 

“I fear not, sir,” he corrected me most gravely, cutting my line of thought in half and discarding it as a whole.  “I found myself unengaged in every activity I set myself to, and that no activity in and of itself could bring me joy.”

 

“Not even when judging seaside Bathing Belles contests on those cruises of yours?”

 

“Not even then, sir.”

 

Well, all I could say to that was, “Good heavens.”  I shook my head fiercely to return to my original notion, which was that this man should not, under any circumstances, be here!

 

“You just haven’t given it enough time yet, Jeeves.  It’s only been six months…”

 

“Sixth months, twenty-one days, eleven hours, and forty-two minutes sir, to be precise.”

 

“I say.”  My mouth dropped open most unattractively.  For the first time I allowed myself a good look at the man and what I found was disagreeable at best to the Wooster conscience and at worst had that inner child of mine crying like I had just skinned both knees and lost my favorite bicycle in the accident.

 

The robe he wore was clinging to a waist that was noticeably narrower and I could have sworn I could count the ribs.  Were those bags under his eyes too?

 

“Jeeves,” I requested solemnly, “Look at me.” 

 

He unerringly complied.  And I was right; the stuffed frog had lost its stuffing.

 

“Oh, Jeeves,” I didn’t know what else to say.  I had heard that people can get sick from worrying but I never actually thought…

 

He seemed to hesitate over something.  “Sir, forgive me but I saw…  I saw what you keep in your room… at your bedside.  I know I had no right to be in there, I just wanted to make sure your quarters were comfortable and…”

 

My heart sank to somewhere around my feet.  He knew my secret then.  Is that what he had come here to discover in the first place?  Was that his intent?  To see if I was a bugger or not?  To clarify if it was all true? 

 

I felt more than realized that my head had dropped into my hands, which were balled fists.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, I should have never…”

 

I shook my head without looking up.

 

“It’s alright, Jeeves,” I rasped, knowing it was not all right at all.  I knew what he was referring to, of course.  I had framed the picture from the article and kept it on my bedside table, so the first thing I looked at in the morning was the pair of us, and the last thing before going to bed.

 

There were nights when I hated this man for his mere existence.  If he had never come into my life than I would have never…

 

No, even in my mind I refused to say it.  It was impossible.

 

“Sir?  Mr. Wooster?”

 

“Yes,” I jumped, not realizing my mind had wandered so far, “Sorry.”

 

“I asked you a question, sir.”

 

“And I, acting a complete ass as usual, missed it.  What is it, Jeeves?”

 

“What does it mean to you sir?  That picture…”  Jeeves abruptly caught himself and backtracked, “I’m sorry, sir, if it’s too personal…”

 

It was.

 

“Jeeves, that’s the only picture of you—and I—that I own.  That’s the only picture I own, period.”

 

And it was true.  The walls were completely bare, the tables and shelves bereft of trinkets.  It was as though a ghost lived here and that was half correct.

 

“I’ve missed you, Jeeves.  I miss our old life together.  Don’t get me wrong, I also miss the Drones Club, and my friends, and Aunt Dahlia.  But I think I’ve missed you most of all.”

 

And that was the naked truth. 

 

“Me, sir?”

 

I couldn’t quite place the tone he used.  Was he skeptical, relieved, or maybe even touched?

 

“Yes.  You, Jeeves.”  I whispered.

 

“I’ve missed you too, sir.”

 

I gave a strained smile at that. 

 

“Thank you, Jeeves, that’s awfully nice of you to say…”

 

 He cleared his throat, the sheep sounding serious.  “I meant it, sir.”

 

And what could one say to that?

 


	11. Chapter 11

            No, I was missing the point entirely.  I couldn’t give in.  I had to drive this figure as far away from me as possible or else… or else…

 

            He had to leave.

 

            So, with a great sense of urgency, I asked him again.

 

            “What are you here for, Jeeves?”

 

            He frowned, as close to a complete facial expression as I had ever seen on him.

 

            “I already said so, sir.  You.”

 

            “For the last time I am not ‘sir’!  And for ‘me’ what?  I can’t go home Jeeves.  I can’t face them.”

 

            “I’m not asking you to, sir, though it would be in your best interests.  I’m asking you to let me stay.  I wish to be your valet again.”

 

            Was the man simply mad?

 

            “Jeeves, I left you half my fortune.  You shouldn’t have to work.  And even if you wanted to, I left you a wide range of friends who would die to have you as their gentleman’s personal gentleman.”

 

            “If you’ll excuse me sir, your friends—while fine people—are all now married.  I do not serve under engaged gentlemen.”

 

            “Goose wasn’t….”  


            “Ah yes, he offered me a gratifying sum.  But I did not really want to travel the world, sir.  I only wanted to find you, and I spent your money doing just that.”

 

            “But Jeeves, why on earth…?”

 

            “The picture, sir,” Jeeves interrupted.  “I had to know what that picture meant.”

 

            I felt my face turn ashen.

 

            “Everything, everything in it is true.”  I choked out in confession.

 

            “Then even the way you looked at me, sir…”

 

            “It cannot be falsified.  The way I looked at you… the way I…”

 

            I was shaking from nerves now. 

 

            “…the way I felt for you…”

 

            With clenched fists I knew this was it.  He would either accept me for who I was—what I was—or knock me to the floor for the same reason.  I deserved both.

 

            “It was all true.”

 

            There I said it.  I flinched and waited, not daring myself a glance at the reaction.

 

            There was a long silence, longer than I could bear.  I wanted to just shrivel in a heap and quietly sink through the floor.

 

            _‘God, he must be disgusted,’_ I thought and finally took action.  I got up, walked over, and grabbed his wet clothes that were still a little damp but wearable nonetheless.  I handed them to him.

 

            I handed them to him, never making eye contact.

 

            And to my utmost surprise, the most remarkable thing happened.  He dropped his things to the floor in a heap, carelessly, and without regard.

 

            That wasn’t like him.

 

            Suddenly, my chin was in his hand and he directed me up, up, upwards…

 

            …Until I could see his face. 

 

            This wasn’t like him either.

 

            “’Felt’ sir?  Am I then to infer that you no longer hold such feelings?”

 

            The man was torturing me.  Where’s the guarantee I wouldn’t be thrown in the fire after all this?

 

            I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  For the briefest moment I had forgotten how to breathe.  For the first time since he got here, I hadn’t paid much attention to my body.  It was sending me mixed signals now.

 

            My heart was beating so hard as to burst at any minute.  Not even those ‘Ginger-headed Sailors’ had a chance to catch up.

 

            My body was shaking in his grasp, so much so that my teeth were chattering and I could barely get a coherent word out.

 

            It was anxiety that was getting to me, panic for sure.  Nothing more, I swear, nothing more…

 

            I was at a loss for words.  Jeeves had never touched me in this way.  And I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted him to continue.

 

            I couldn’t do this.

 

            Jeeves deserved far better than me.

 

            And that was the rub in its entirety.

 

            The problem was I could never lie to Jeeves.  The man’s a lie detector, especially when it came to me.  Once in a while, he would courteously let me get away with one or two lies, which always turned out badly for me somehow, until I graciously spilled the beans.  To keep anything from Jeeves, I will stress once more, was impossible. 

 

            Why, realization slowly dawned on me, he probably knew before I did that I… felt… the feelings which must not be mentioned towards him.  Long before that picture was ever taken.  Why was he here then?  To prove his theory?  If he already knew the answers then why was he asking the questions?

 

            “I nearly died that day,” I said quietly, startling myself and him, as it had been a good few minutes since anything was last said.  “Not from the flames, although I could have died there too, but from the thought of losing you, the same way I lost my parents.”

 

            I carded a hand through my hair, now suddenly brave enough to look at the man.

 

            “You are my family, Jeeves.  No distance or anything can change that.”

 

            I gulped.

 

            “Now it’s my turn to ask.  What… what does that photo mean to you?”

 

            He stopped and the silence that stretched between us was tangible. 

 

            My eyes grew wide as a theory, an impossible one, struck me.

 

            “Jeeves, you… you’re not… like me?  Are you?”

 

            It was his turn to glance down again, his forehead wrinkled in deep thought.  Immediately I knew what he was going to say.  He was going to find a way to let me down gently, he was going to…

 

            “I am not certain, sir.”

 

            The answer nearly knocked me off my feet and I fear, as much as I tried to suppress it, hope poked its head around the corner.

 

            “Can…”  Where had all my breath gone?   It was a fight against myself to get the words out.  “Can you elaborate, Jeeves?”

 

            “Certainly, sir.  Mr. Wooster, when I first entered your services I was most certainly not a…” he gestured at the air.  Naturally a word like ‘Bugger’ would be too sordid for him to use. 

 

            “Degenerate.” I filled in for him instead. 

 

            He flinched.  Jeeves actually flinched.  “Not that either, sir. You are in no way…” 

 

            “Oh?”  I asked, curiosity coming out to play with hope. 

 

            “No sir!  Just because your… tastes… tend to deviate from the larger crowd, does not in any way make you less of a man.”

 

            “There are those who would argue against this point, Jeeves.  God’s entire church for one.”

 

            “And with all due respect for them, sir, they’d be wrong.” 

 

            Astonishment had now waltzed in to join the party.  I blinked repeatedly.  

 

            “I beg your pardon, Jeeves?”

 

            “As I was saying before, Mr. Wooster, throughout the course of our acquaintance I have grown to become… fond of you.  More so than any other employer I have served under.  And contrary to what you might think, as I am young, there have been many other employers.  But when I read your file in the Ganymede Club book, I could have never imagined I would be in this situation…”

 

            “And what situation is that, Jeeves?”

 

            “Confessing my deepest feelings, sir.”

 

            That’s right, Jeeves has feelings.  He’s not just a stuffed frog that can’t croak, or a sculpture of Adonis that can’t move, or a coughing sheep that can’t stop coughing—though at times he seems like all those things and more—but not tonight, and certainly not now.

 

            “And what might those be, Jeeves?”

 

            My heart was in my throat, my stomach was doing acrobatics, and I’m fairly sure every other part of me was pulling a Picasso as well.  I was either falling to pieces or melting, surely.

 

            “I… I’m not quite sure, sir.”

 

            My heart plummeted. 

 

            “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

 

            I stopped.  “Wha…what was that, Jeeves?”

 

            He closed the distance between us again. 

 

            Again he took my face in his hands.  Again I felt my heart thump-thump-thump so hard as to beat out of my chest. 

 

            Close.  Closer.  Closer still.

 

            “Wait.”

 

            I sighed the sigh to end all sighs.  It had been my voice that had vociferated the objection. 

 

            One must understand, I wanted his touch, and his—dare I say it?—kiss, more than anything.  But something was holding me back.  Something was keeping me from my greatest desire.  Something was…

 

            And in a flash of insight, I knew what that “something” was.

 

            “You can’t do this, Jeeves.  You can’t play with a man’s heart like this.  You just can’t.”  A lesser man would have stated all this in anger; I simply stated it in pity.   

 

            “Sir?”

 

            “I can’t lose you again, Jeeves.  What if this experiment of yours doesn’t work?  What if you’re not in love with me?  Will you go back to England with just this?  Will you stay here with me where I can look but can’t touch?  If you take a bite out of the poisoned fruit, will you live to regret it, so to speak?”

 

            Throughout this speech I fidgeted.  I tugged at my hair and pulled at my clothes.  I was just working at a damn cuff button that had come undone when fingers more slender and adept replaced mine and secured the dratted thing once more.  

 

            “Forgive me, Mr. Wooster, sir.  I didn’t know you had such thoughts, nor that I had come to mean so much to you.”

 

            “Yes, well, you know now.  Why don’t we just retire for the evening, Jeeves?  You can have my bed and I’ll take the sofa and in the morning I’ll give you money for the fare...”

 

            Jeeves held up a hand to stop me.  He cleared his throat.

 

            “Forgive me for interrupting but you are wrong, sir.  Firstly, those questions have run through my own head as well, I will confess.  So I must answer your questions with a question of my own:  Why do you think it took so long for me to come here?”

 

            “I left a trail not even Sherlock Holmes could follow!”

 

            Jeeves quirked an eyebrow and gave a… it couldn’t be!  Was that an almost-smile?

 

            “You’re right, it did take several weeks to find you.  But weeks, sir, not months.”

 

            “But how—”

 

            “It was your character, sir.  A personality like yours is hard to forget.  And of course the inordinate amount of money that you gave people helped a great deal in locating you.”

 

            “Of course,” I gave a laugh that was somewhat hysteric in nature.

 

            “Especially since what you paid, I proceeded to double.”

 

            “Then Jeeves…what?—where?—where have you been?”

 

            “With you, sir.” 

 

            I did a double take; he had not meant what he said.  Surely I had heard wrong.

 

            “What did you say Jeeves?”

 

            “I said, sir, that I have been here with you.”

 

            “Bu… but how is that possible?”  I spluttered.  Because I knew for a fact I had been all alone.  The man had not been hiding in my kitchen cabinets, underneath my bed, or behind my chest of drawers.  I checked every night. 

 

            “Not in this house, per say sir.  But nearby nonetheless.  I have been taken on as one of your grape harvesters, sir.”

 

            I was shocked, I was astonished, and I was skeptical to say the least.  Surely he must be joking?

 

            “Surely you must be joking!” I blabbed.  The idea of Jeeves in the hot sun picking grapes was ludicrous.

 

            And I tried very hard not to think of what he might look like, going without a shirt as most workers were wont to do in the hotter months.  Sweat pouring down his back and making him shine.  Hands that were calloused from hard work gently plucking the grapes from their vines…

 

            With that I took Jeeves’ hands in mine and turned them over.  There they were… new calluses to cover the old, ones that could not be brought on by regular household work alone...  No, these calluses came from the fields. 

 

            I looked up and into his eyes, feeling his hands fold around mine.

 

            ‘Where did he live?’  ‘Was he happy here?’  ‘Why didn’t he come to me sooner?’  These questions and a thousand more danced at the tip of my tongue, all fighting their way out. 

 

            The one that won was, quite simply:  “Why, Jeeves?”

 

            I’d been asking that question a fair amount of times this evening.

 

            I looked down to where my hands were being held, terribly confused.

 

            “I would have thought it obvious, sir.”

 

            Well, it bally well wasn’t obvious… why would a man give up everything he owned, everything he cared about?  His friends, his family… all for another man?  It was just like…

 

            Me.  And what I did for him.

 

            I came to the only conclusion I could come to then.  “You’re in love with me?” 

 

            With nary a twitch of hesitation, he nodded.

 

            Somewhere something between a choke and a squeal sounded... was it from me?  I tried to let go of his hands to brush some moisture out of my eyes but he wouldn’t let me, only squeezing our hands tighter together. 

 

            I vociferated one of my other questions, “Then why not come to me sooner?”  ‘Why torture me so?’ would be the next question but I didn’t have time to ask it.

 

            For he was answering with: “I had to make absolutely sure, sir.  If there was even a shadow of a doubt… I could never hurt you like that, Mr. Wooster.”

 

            I swallowed against a dry throat.  “So there isn’t, then?  There is no shadow?”

 

            “I wouldn’t be here if there was.”

 

            Once again, he looked in my eyes.  “Sir, if it so pleases you, I’d like to find out.  Know that I will remain at your side no matter what happens tonight.  Even if you never want to see me again…” he raised his hand against my choked protest, “I will remain here, and nearby — always near — in case you need me.  My home, my life, indeed sir, is here with you, Mr. Wooster.”

 

            My hands released themselves and one moved of its own accord to touch the softness of his lips.  

 

            “Why such devotion?  Why me?”  I whispered in honest confusion.  Surely I had never done anything close to deserving this.

 

            “As I have mentioned before, Mr. Wooster, there is a tie that binds.”

 

            “And how do you know those feelings are reciprocated?”  Which of course they were, but I had to hold out.  Just a bit longer…

 

            I can’t remember why anymore.

 

            He leaned toward me with an honest to God smile this time.

 

            “Because actions speak louder than words.”

 

            I wanted to ask him what he meant, but then he kissed me. 

 

            So _this_ was what those poems and thinggummies were talking about.  I had always just assumed those authors were talking through their hats.  Take Madeline Basset for instance.  All that being gooey and gushy.  But now I think she might have something there, after all.

 

            Because, my God, attraction is…

 

            Attraction is like…

 

            Oh, damn it all, how does one go about explaining love?

 

            Love…

 

            That’s what this is…

 

            Not just physical attraction, although God was I truly feeling that for the first time in my life.  But so much more.  And if one has never felt it for one’s self, I’m not sure I can explain it any better than that. 

 

            For this Wooster, who has the gift of gab when both talking and taking up the pen, is speechless.    

 

            But perhaps that’s the way it should be.  Love was never meant to be explained, but discovered. 

 

            When we parted I was winded and breathless and all those things that make it hard to speak, but after several moments of trying I managed to say it:

 

            “Just in case you didn’t know, Jeeves, I love you.”

 

            And though I knew he reciprocated, I never in a thousand years expected him to say the words.  But then he said:

 

            “And I love you, Mr. Wooster.”

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

            Jeeves and I happily harvested grapes (among many other activities enjoyed together) for years to come.  He even helped me write a letter to my Aunt Dahlia to which she replied with much love, saying I was a dunce to top all dunces and that I was sorely missed as a wretched blot on the landscape, but quite frankly the only one she could ever stand. 

 

            We never wrote about Jeeves and I being together, but I believe she understood.  And while she may have never approved, I think she was happy for us nonetheless.  She started sending us Anatole’s nonperishable food items and before long we were talking on the wire again, her booming voice scaring the local birds away for days on end.  

 

            I ended up longing for home, and when this longing turned to pining, well, Jeeves deemed it safe and thought it the best time to return.  We would always have to remain incognito, but I found it a small price to pay.  Indeed, I didn’t mind it at all.

 

            When we did return, we found another flat—this one out in the countryside, as that’s what we were now accustomed to—and whilst I did miss the Drones club, I don’t think there was a Drones member who didn’t visit me. 

 

            For the first couple of months, we were besieged with callers.  All of my friends had managed to get themselves stuck so thick in the soup it was a wonder any of them were still married (and with nippers to boot!).  Jeeves and I tried our very best to forbid the bringing along of offspring, but things were smashed and upturned and in the end it was both of us cleaning up messes, him figuratively, me not so figuratively.

 

            Oh yes, and Jeeves and I still played the Gentleman’s Personal Gentleman/Young Master approach in company, but it had a hollow ring to it.

 

            I missed our privacy back in the south of France.  I missed not having good friends sleeping on couches.  But I must say our lives were now again an adventure.  And as long as I didn’t go snatching policemen’s helmets from policemen’s heads, or dancing arm and arm with Jeeves in the street, we were never bothered. 

 

            Well, except that one time… 

 

            But that’s another story entirely.

 

            Which, just like this one, ends with ‘happily ever after.’ 

 

            Tootle-pip!

 

The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a bit of silliness from an era long gone. But it's something I wrote and I'm trying to gain the courage to post my newer things by posting my old. I suppose that makes more sense to me. This fic is finished though, and dedicated (once upon a time) to my friend lemmealone and her wonderful fic “Jeeves and The Divine Retribution.” Purely and perfectly inspiring! So this is my return gift for such beauty. And to my betas: fstohell , lollyphants , & daisy_suzuki.


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